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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373946">Don't Call on Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesley2015remaster/pseuds/wesley2015remaster'>wesley2015remaster</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Don't Call On Me [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Monkees (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dolenzmith - Freeform, JUST. A LOT OF MUTUAL PINING, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre Canon, Pre-TV Show, davy and peter aren't in this sorry, homophobia isnt in great detail for most of it, just kinda implied ya know, kind of slow burn i guess aahh, micky is fruity tbh, mike is saaaaaddddd, showverse monkees, watch me give these two dimensional sitcom characters backstory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:00:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>35,459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesley2015remaster/pseuds/wesley2015remaster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike is a musician who hates living in California, until he meets Micky. Micky has hardly any direction in life, until he meets Mike.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Micky Dolenz/Mike Nesmith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Don't Call On Me [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Don't Call on Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>okay first thing's first -<br/>i've been making a lot of art for this kind of au/headcanon-y thing based off of the stuff i wrote in this fic. i'm gonna include all the sketches and drawings at the end of the chapters but you can also find them at my ig and tumblr, @/autmnalmanac, and my twitter, @/mthernaturesson</p><p>i also have a playlist (bc im cheesy like that), which correlates with the chapter names and such. you can find it here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5AdetzdGH77IWjujdrEeDb?si=ob_x9hEfQpmk-iOcVEU7HQ </p><p>okay, that's all, enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Micky Dolenz made his way through the crowd, warm light shining all around him. He was realising now he was underdressed for this kind of event. He looked too young for this crowd too – he was only eighteen after all, and most of the guests were middle aged or older. How he had ever convinced anyone to let him in was a mystery to him. A light piano was playing from the stage, but Micky could hardly hear it over the din of people socialising and the clinking of glasses. He wouldn’t be staying long – just enough to look natural and to eat enough free appetisers to be satisfied.</p>
<p>It wasn’t long before he got bored of dawdling aimlessly around the party (he always got bored so easily). In a desperate search for something to keep him busy, he picked up a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and wandered over to a chattering group. Sometimes he managed to slip right into people’s conversations without anyone noticing his arrival – and sometimes he didn’t. This time it was the latter.</p>
<p>He had sidled up to the group and began laughing at their jokes before a tall, 40-something man with a sharp jaw and short black hair gave him a quizzical glance.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he said to Micky with a slight clear of his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve met. How do you know Ron?”</p>
<p><em>So, Ron was the host. That would be good to remember. </em>Micky hoped the biting of his lip wasn’t too obvious to this crowd.</p>
<p>“Oh, how rude of me, not introducing myself,” he chuckled, holding his hand out for the man to shake. “George Dolenz.”</p>
<p>“John Warner.”</p>
<p>“Ron and I met at the Christmas party last year, I was Sandra’s plus one,” he explained.</p>
<p>He hoped to whatever Lord was above that a Sandra existed, and that she knew Ron somehow.</p>
<p>“Oh, of course!” An older woman with silver hair tied into a bun gasped. Micky’s saving grace. “This young man is a family friend of Sandra’s. He’s very bright according to his mother and going to take over his father’s business when he’s older.”</p>
<p>Micky didn’t question the narrative this lady was spinning – that was, after all, part of the fun.</p>
<p>“You flatter me,” Micky said, smiling sweetly at the woman. He had no idea who the hell this lady thought he was, but that didn’t matter. He would be long gone by the time anybody would notice.</p>
<p>“Sandra would have loved to see you here,” another woman spoke. She was younger, most likely a similar age to John, perhaps they were partners, from the way they stood together. “She’s fallen terribly ill, been bedridden all week.”</p>
<p>Micky’s shoulders dropped their tension. That made things easier.</p>
<p>“So, I’ve heard,” Micky said, with a raise of his eyebrows. “Mother believes she’ll be back on her feet in no time.”</p>
<p>Yellow light reflected off the edge of his champagne glass; the piano continued to play. Everything seemed to glitter as he gazed at the sea of faces surrounding him. This is what he enjoyed: feeling like a stranger in a world of people who thought they knew him. It was lonely, but it was an interesting kind of loneliness, like reading a book.</p>
<p>Then there was a hush as the piano faded away until it was no longer playing. A new musician, a guitarist, had come onto the stage, and the room quietened in both intrigue and out of courtesy. The first few chords of the song rung out; the singer began the first verse.</p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t call on me<br/>When you’re feeling footloose<br/>And fancy free</em>
</p>
<p>The chatter was beginning again, but it all became so boring to Micky now – he had already moved on to something that fascinated him more. He excused himself and moved closer to the stage, trying to get a closer look at the man who was playing. He found another circle of people talking that he could attach himself to who luckily did not ask who he was. They kept talking as if he belonged there, although Micky wasn’t listening to much of their menial conversation. He took another sip of his champagne and stole glances to the stage.</p>
<p>
  <em>You’ve done that before<br/>And like a fool I<br/>Came back for more</em>
</p>
<p>The singer skimmed the room full of people, and Micky’s hopefulness made him believe that those eyes had landed on him. Even if they had, it probably meant nothing to the musician, who undoubtedly locked eyes with hundreds of people a week. A glance was just that: a glance. And yet it still pulled Micky out of his voyeuristic haze, and he was too distracted to listen in to the people around him.</p>
<p>The man on stage was tall and skinny – on the verge of being troublingly skinny – and probably not much older than Micky. He had dark hair that looked like it was growing to be too long to be socially acceptable, but it was slicked up and pushed back to make the length less noticeable. Micky’s hair was getting to be a bit too long himself, but if he made sure to straighten and comb it to look more respectable nobody made a fuss. The kind of people that went to these events preferred to snicker when your back was turned rather than confront you directly, and if they did confront someone, it was only ever passive aggressive. In this kind of environment, it was like that, at least.</p>
<p>The guitarist stared at the ground most of the time when he was performing. Either that or he was looking absently at the back of the room. Every now and then, when Micky would have to look away because somebody was speaking to him, asking him a question or offering a hors d’oeuvre, he would steal a glimpse back to the stage and he could have sworn he saw the performer's eyes quickly averting from him back to the ground.</p>
<p>He had shiny black shoes, but they looked old; an expensive looking white suit, but it was a little rumpled. His guitar was a cream coloured twelve-string, much nicer than the ones Micky had owned throughout his life.</p>
<p>He played through the set, always drawing Micky’s attention in with each new song. Micky had no choice but to tear himself away from watching him, as he didn’t want to appear strange to the circle of people around him. He went through the motions of small talk, playing his part, drinking his champagne, eating food when offered, but every time he heard that guitar begin strumming again at the start of every song, like a moth to a flame, he was pulled back in and his sentence would taper off. Some songs he knew, some he didn’t, but that never mattered.</p>
<p>It was getting late, around the time Micky would have thought to ditch, when the performer unplugged his guitar and left for a room to pack up his things. Micky began to wander again. He really should be leaving, but he wasn’t quite ready to go. He scanned the crowd, looking back to the door the man had gone through, until he saw him again, making his way to the bar.</p>
<p>Micky pushed his way through the people at the party, twisting this way and that to avoid bumping into staff and partygoers alike and sat beside the stranger, who turned to him when he noticed Micky’s presence.</p>
<p>“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink,” Micky said as a greeting.</p>
<p>“Ain’t that a wonder,” the man drawled. He spoke slowly with a slight twang to his accent. His voice was breathy with a steady pitch and a dream-like quality. “I was hoping to ask you the same thing.”</p>
<p>“You’re an incredible musician,” Micky told him. “What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Michael Nesmith.”</p>
<p>“Now <em>that’s </em>a wonder,” Micky said, cracking a wide grin. “I’m Michael Dolenz. George Michael Dolenz. But you can just call me Micky.”</p>
<p>Micky turned to the bartender and asked for two glasses of scotch while Michael assessed him. His drinking companion was sporting long hair and a simple white button up shirt with a black blazer, no cufflinks. That was what originally caught his attention. This was supposedly a black tie event, and yet here this kid was, no tie. Michael imagined he was a son of a CEO, a wealthy kid who dressed humble not because he pretended to be poor but because he had the right level of arrogance to not feel the need to show off or overcompensate, unlike most other people at the party. He imagined Micky Dolenz to be sure of himself, to never have had a reason to doubt himself in his life. And that wasn’t exactly something Michael could relate to, and not something he wanted to be interested in long term, but just for tonight he could entertain the notion of sparking up a conversation with this handsome stranger and forget about him by the morning.</p>
<p>“You’re not one for fancy dress, huh?” Michael noted.</p>
<p>Micky rolled his lips together, worried that he had been found out. He hadn’t wanted to overdo it and look ridiculous, but he had ended up not doing enough. He should have brought a tie in his pocket before he came, at least. He didn’t know that Michael had only thought that he wore it well.</p>
<p>“You played beautifully,” Micky said, not so subtly changing the subject. “That first song, was it an original?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it was,” Michael confirmed, looking to his drink, a little sheepish at being complimented. Micky supposed he didn’t get praised a lot.</p>
<p>“About anyone in particular?” Micky asked. Michael continued avoiding his gaze.</p>
<p>“Maybe,” Michael shrugged, adjusting his body language to be less shy and more playfully aloof. “Wouldn’t matter if it was, it’s not like you’d know them.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know that.” Micky rolled his eyes. “I meet a lot of people.”</p>
<p>“Who do you know here, then?” Michael asked.</p>
<p>“I’m a family friend of Sandra,” Micky replied, sticking with his original story, though he doubted it would matter. “Sadly, she couldn’t make it due to sickness, so I’m here alone.”</p>
<p>“Not anymore,” Michael said.</p>
<p>“Now I have company,” Micky agreed. “You have a slight accent. Where are you from?”</p>
<p>“Texas,” Michael answered.</p>
<p>“I didn’t want to assume,” Micky said. He was jumping from topic to topic and it was dizzying. “Do you get many gigs? I assume you’re quite successful with your talent and the type of crowd you play for.”</p>
<p>“Never ask a man his paycheck,” Michael shot back, a slight twitch at the side of his mouth that curved it into a small smile. Micky caught a glimpse of crooked teeth before Michael quickly stopped smiling again.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t asking paycheck,” Micky pointed out. “But that suit does look quite expensive, where did you get it, may I ask?”</p>
<p>“That’s classified, babe,” Michael said. He took a sip of his scotch. “You shouldn’t be spending the night interrogating me anyway. You’re young and pretty – you should go find a date instead.”</p>
<p>“I like you better,” Micky shrugged, leaning his head on his palm. Then he took a swig of his remaining scotch and said, “But I do have to go, I promised mother I wouldn’t be out too long. It was nice to meet you, Mike.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike.</em>
</p>
<p>Micky gave Michael one last pat on the shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment before sliding away. He could still feel the ghost of Micky’s hand even when he was long gone out the front door.</p>
<p>Micky stepped out into the fresh air and took a deep breath. It was a long walk home, but still he slung his jacket over his shoulder and swaggered along. The night was dark and cold, but he hardly noticed as he whistled while he walked. The din of the party echoed in his ears and the champagne and scotch he had drunk went straight to his head, making him feel woozy. He whistled along to one of the songs Mike had sung that he could still hear in his head.</p>
<p>Micky felt the first few raindrops on his cheek and smiled to himself. He still had a way to walk, but he didn’t mind much. When the rain really started to pour, he held his jacket above his head to cover him and jumped in every puddle he saw, giggling quietly to himself until he was safe in his own bed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Hung Up on a Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"A dream unusual of its kind<br/>That gave me peace and blew my mind<br/>And now I'm hung up on a dream"</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There Micky was again, standing in the middle of a room, watching people bustling by him, golden light falling across the room. Micky drifted from person to person, introducing himself, making conversation, asking about their mothers or their husbands or their work. There was a peace of mind that came with the room, the sounds, the lights, the sea of anonymous faces, that Micky could get lost in. He was both a character in a play and a member of the audience; he was someone far removed from himself. However, he wasn’t just coming to these types of parties for kicks and free drinks anymore, he had a purpose, and that had been distracting him from the out of body experience he was used to in these spaces. He was firmly planted in his own shoes and waiting with bated breath for Mike.</p><p>Micky had been risking a great deal by going to these events more often, and sometimes he had minor slip ups such as not being able to name the host, or fumbling on his cover story, but he was always able to improvise his way through awkward moments, and if the people around him thought he was out of place, they did not mention it. And in any case, he didn’t particularly care what these people thought of him.</p><p>He had seen Mike again a handful of times, but others he hadn’t. When the night turned out to be one of those occurrences when he didn’t see Mike, Micky would leave early, dejected. The chase was starting to catch up to Micky and he wouldn’t be able to keep up this hobby of his as fervently as he currently was. He was busy, he had things to do, and he couldn’t stay in this kind of world – the world he imagined Mike inhabited – forever. He wished he could stay like this forever; the kind of loneliness that came with being a stranger at a party was easier to bear than what awaited him when he had to eventually leave for the real world. Still, no matter what he wished for, he knew this couldn't last. And yet here he was, once again.</p><p>He hadn’t spoken to Mike a second time. He didn’t want to appear like a needy kid or obsessive or what have you. He was just a fan of the music. They had spoken only once, and yet Mike’s eyes always managed to find him in the crowd.</p><p>The stage lit up as a man walked across it towards the grand piano. Micky could almost hear the clicking of his heels on the polished hardwood floor, every step hammering throughout the room. Micky couldn’t see his face, but he knew it wasn’t Mike. As far as he knew, Mike didn’t play piano (at least at gigs he didn’t) and this man was shorter, and bulkier, with greying flecks in his dark hair. The man noticed the audience’s attention on him and milked their silence for all it was worth, taking his time to adjust his seat, smooth out his jacket and flex his fingers in preparation. Micky couldn’t help but roll his eyes. <em>Get on with it, already. </em>He was familiar with the charades these people played, but he would never understand them.</p><p>The routine began once again, the piano tinkered on in the background, the chatter began again. A girl was talking to him, leaning into him, clinging to his arm, talking into his ear over the noise and asking him what he did. He said he was studying business and taking a class in conversational German. She offered him a drink and he accepted. She was small with blonde hair that curled and fell over her shoulders and the rings on her fingers were cool on his skin when their hands brushed together. She had big doll-like eyes and long eyelashes that she batted up at him every time he glanced at her. Her irises were a rich brown that were tinted with caramel from the yellowy lights all around them. She was twenty-two. Micky told her that he was twenty-one.</p><p>The girl clung to him the whole night, and he wasn’t complaining. They spoke and drank at the bar, until he was a few cocktails in and starting to feel dizzy. He had stopped paying attention to what was happening on stage – too involved in the conversation and the girl’s hand on his knee – and he hadn’t noticed that the pianist had left until a guitar began strumming. His head whipped around, eager as a small puppy. Mike.</p><p>“Do you know him?” The girl asked with a nod in Mike’s direction, noting his obvious reaction to hearing him play.</p><p>“We met, briefly,” Micky explained. He chuckled away the embarrassment. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting him to be playing tonight, it caught me off guard.”</p><p>“He’s quite handsome,” she pointed out, accentuating her point by cocking her head and pursing her lips. “Was he rude to you or something? Is that why he ‘caught you off guard’?”</p><p>“No, no, no, not at all,” Micky shook his head adamantly, strands of hair flicking over his eyes that he pushed back with fidgety hands. He tried to come up with some lie on the spot. “He’s just a friend of a friend of a friend and I heard nobody had heard from him in a while, is all. Kind of fell off the face of the earth, apparently.”</p><p>“Oh,” she said. She twisted a lock of her yellow hair behind her ear. “I wonder what his deal is.”</p><p>Micky hummed in response.</p><p>They ordered another round of drinks and spoke for some time, and just like every other time Mike was performing, Micky paid more attention to the stage than to whoever he was talking to. He managed to keep up with her conversation – she mostly only talked about herself and Micky preferred it that way – but it was difficult. Micky sipped his drink slowly. It was some fruity cocktail that the girl had suggested to him and it left a stinging bittersweet taste in his mouth. After a while, Micky excused himself to go to the bathroom and she pointed the way.</p><p>Once in the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, taking in his features. His arched eyebrows, his almond shaped eyes, his pug nose. He saw himself with the kind of clarity that only came with being tipsy and leaning over a sink in an empty bathroom. <em>What am I doing here?</em> The music from outside was muffled and faded to a stop as the set ended. When Micky came back, the girl had been swept away into another conversation on the other side of the room. He could have gone after her, could have slipped into the conversation she was having, but he decided to stay near the bar to be by himself for a moment.</p><p>There was an emptiness throughout the atmosphere of the room that had previously been filled with Mike’s music. But after a few minutes a new musician walked on stage and that space was filled again.</p><p>Micky didn’t bother looking around for Mike. Most of the time he went into a backroom somewhere and didn’t re-enter the party. Presumably, he would be going home. That was when someone spoke from behind Micky.</p><p>“How come I keep seeing you around?” An accented voice asked. Micky swivelled to face him, smiling from ear to ear.</p><p>“I told you,” he replied, containing his smile into a playful smirk. “I know a lot of people.”</p><p>Mike sat beside him, arm resting on the bar countertop.</p><p>“Yeah?” Mike asked, eyebrows raising teasingly. “Like who?”</p><p>Micky pointed to the girl he had been speaking to all night, who had her back turned to them.</p><p>“Her name is Angela,” he said. “She’s twenty-two and wants to go to university to study law in New York, but her mother wants her to stay at home. She suspects her mother is trying to set her up with one of her friend’s sons who’s quite wealthy and a similar age.” He pointed to the man beside her. “That’s Richard, but he prefers Rich, and apparently he was caught having an affair with his secretary and his wife wants a divorce.” He pointed to another woman closer to the bar. “Her business is failing and she’s almost bankrupt. I could keep going if you like?”</p><p>Mike seemed impressed. “How do you know all this?” He asked.</p><p>“I’m a good listener,” Micky shrugged. “People like to talk about themselves and they like to gossip about other people.”</p><p>“And what do they know about you?” Mike asked.</p><p>“Absolutely nothing,” Micky grinned brazenly. Mike seemed to be captivated by Micky as he gave the smallest hint of a smile. Without a word, he ordered a drink for each of them from the bartender and Micky didn’t argue.</p><p>“How old are you?” Mike asked, taking the challenge to get to know Micky.</p><p>Micky eyed the bartender, who had served their drinks and moved on to another customer away from where they were sitting.</p><p>“Eighteen,” Micky admitted when he had deemed it safe. “But don’t tell the bartender. You?”</p><p>“Nineteen,” Mike said. “And I won’t rat if you don’t.”</p><p>Micky gave a light, polite chuckle at that.</p><p>“You’re very young to be playing these types of venues,” Micky noted. “Are you a prodigy?”</p><p>“Hey, now, I’m meant to be asking about you,” Mike fussed.</p><p>“I’m boring,” Micky said, rolling his eyes and dramatically planting his chin on the palm of his hand.</p><p>“What kind of music do you like?” Mike asked, trying to change the subject.</p><p>“I like the music you play,” Micky replied, shifting ever so closer to Mike. His finger tapped lightly on the side of his face. He was having fun with this, and his answer seemed to amuse Mike greatly.</p><p>“Well, I don’t,” Mike said. Micky frowned at his response.</p><p>“Why not?” He asked, pouting at the man beside him. “You play so beautifully.”</p><p>Mike brushed his hair back, though it wasn’t falling in his face in the first place. He blew out a breath and looked away from Micky. Micky’s suspicions must have been correct – he wasn’t used to being complimented. This confused Micky. This guy performed for a living and seemed to make a good living doing it, too. It didn’t make a lick of sense.</p><p>“Stop changing the subject,” Mike chided.</p><p>“There’s just nothing to <em>know </em>about me,” Micky sighed theatrically. “Both my parents stayed together, <em>and</em> they loved me. I had a good childhood, <em>what</em> a tragedy.”</p><p>“I don’t need to hear your whole autobiography,” Mike said. He took a gulp of his drink and winced at the taste. “But, you know, what colours do you like, what are your hobbies, <em>et cetera et cetera</em>.”</p><p>“I haven’t really thought about colours,” Micky mused. He had grabbed his glass by the top and was swirling it around absent-mindedly. His leg bounced slightly while he thought. “Maybe green.”</p><p>“Why do you go to so many parties?” Mike asked. Then he decided to answer his own question. “<em>I</em> assume it’s because you’re young and you’ve got the whole world in your hands. You’ve got nothing better to do with your time. Am I correct?”</p><p>“You talk as if you’re decades older than I am,” Micky said, deflecting again. “And how can you be so sure? You said yourself that you know nothing about me.”</p><p>“I know your type,” Mike scoffed into his drink.</p><p>“And I know yours,” Micky said. “Let me guess: an instrument in your hands before you could talk, expensive music lessons from the best teachers in your city for as long as you can remember, pressure from parents to be performing at Carnegie Hall before you’re twenty-one.”</p><p>Mike snickered at that. Micky wasn’t sure if that meant he was on the mark or twenty yards off. Mike never confirmed nor denied what he had said, only kept sipping his drink.</p><p>“Is she your girl?” Mike asked, nodding in the direction of the girl Micky had been talking to all night. “Angela?”</p><p>“What? No, man,” Micky shook his head. “I told you, her mom’s practically got her set up with another guy.”</p><p>“Maybe that’s what you like about her,” Mike shrugged. “The allure of going after the one you can’t have.”</p><p>“For someone who wants to get to know me, you sure like to make assumptions,” Micky pointed out.</p><p>“You’re not exactly forthcoming,” Mike chuckled.</p><p>“Neither are you, Mr Nesmith,” Micky said. “And if you must know, we were just flirting. I think she likes me more than I like her.”</p><p>“She doesn’t seem like your type,” Mike said with pursed lips. <em>What did he mean by that? </em></p><p>“I don’t have a type,” Micky replied.</p><p>“Ah, so you’re desperate,” Mike smirked, gesturing to Micky with the hand that was still holding his glass. Micky’s mouth gaped opened in offense.</p><p>“I never said that,” Micky tutted. “I just like to keep my options open.”</p><p>“Sounds like something a desperate man would say,” Mike teased.</p><p>“Maybe <em>I</em> just don’t judge a book by its cover,” Micky said.</p><p>Mike finished his drink, and Micky had already finished his minutes ago. Mike set his glass down and stood up to leave and Micky followed suit, stumbling a little as he did so. Mike balanced him and gave him a quizzical glance.</p><p>“How much have you had to drink?” Mike asked.</p><p>“Not enough to have a hangover in the morning,” Micky assured him. “Really, Mike, I’m just a klutz.”</p><p>It wasn’t a lie. Micky was a little tipsy, but he was perfectly able to walk. And yet Mike didn’t look convinced.</p><p>“I’m gonna call you a cab,” Mike said, biting his lip. “Wait here, I need to get my guitar.”</p><p>“I swear, Mike, I’m not …”</p><p>But Mike was already gone before Micky could argue. Micky waited by the bar with his arms crossed and his foot tapping. In no time, he caught Mike making his way back to Micky, carrying a bulky and beat up guitar case. Without a word, Mike grabbed Micky’s wrist and gently lead him to the door. Angela was watching them leave but Micky didn’t notice her.</p><p>It was cold outside and Micky shivered. Mike considered giving him his jacket but thought better of it. He would need it back for the next gig and neither of them knew how to contact each other. As far as he knew this would be the last time he would ever see Micky. He was still holding Micky’s wrist as they stepped out onto the concrete sidewalk, the night suddenly swallowing them in darkness, and he dropped it quickly when he noticed.</p><p>“I like your guitar,” Micky said, drawing Mike out of his thoughts.</p><p>“It’s a Gretsch,” Mike said in response.</p><p>“Oh, groovy,” Micky replied. He didn’t have much else to say. He didn’t know much about guitars other than how to play them and he found it harder to pretend to be someone he wasn’t in the harsh reality of the street. Micky stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for humouring me tonight. I’ll quit being a weirdo stalker or whatever.”</p><p>Mike noticed Micky was more flustered now, and less formal. He was acting more bashful than he ever had in the brief conversations they had together. He wondered if he had done anything wrong – maybe he had been too forceful, maybe calling a taxi was crossing some kind of line, maybe he shouldn’t be waiting with him to make sure he was safe.</p><p>“I like having a familiar face in the crowd,” Mike shrugged.</p><p>“I don’t think you’ll see my ugly mug again,” Micky smiled shyly. Mike wondered if Micky was politely trying to turn Mike down. He didn’t have much time to mull it over – Micky’s taxi was pulling up. Micky opened the door and hopped into the backseat.</p><p>“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Mike said, leaning down to look at Micky, his forearm resting on the doorframe so he couldn’t close the door just yet. He had to squint to see Micky’s features in the darkness. “Just in case.”</p><p>“Until next time,” Micky said, and Mike thought he saw him smile with a closed mouth. He backed away from the door, closing it for Micky and waving as the cab drove away.</p><p>Mike picked up his guitar case and almost wished he had gotten in the cab with Micky, just so he didn’t have to walk home. But he didn’t want to see where Micky lived, and he certainly didn’t want Micky to see where he lived. He didn’t want their charade to have to end.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 4 + 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Four and twenty years ago, I come into this life<br/>The son of a woman and a man who lived in strife<br/>He was tired of being poor, and he wasn’t into selling door to door”</p>
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    <p>Mike woke up early some days later. The curtains were closed, but it didn’t matter much – the sun hadn’t come up yet and it was still dark outside. His room was bathed in the deep blue of early mornings and his head ached and his stomach rumbled. He was too tired to get up yet, but he was too awake to try and fall asleep again. He kicked the blankets off in frustration then pulled them back on when he felt the biting cold on his legs. Blindly, he reached for the pack of cigarettes and lighter he had thrown on his bedside table weeks ago. The pack was still relatively full.</p><p>He sat up in his bed and held the cigarette between his lips, flicked the lighter and cupped his free hand around it. The room soon clouded with smoke and Mike batted it away from his face in annoyance. <em>My own fault for not opening a damn window.</em> Still, he did not get up from the bed.</p><p>His thoughts meandered onto what he would be doing for the rest of the day. He had a gig that night, but other than that, he had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to see. He considered sitting in his bed, chain smoking all day, but he couldn’t stand the smell.</p><p>Mike couldn’t stand California. He had hated Texas too, but at least it was familiar. He was alone in a new city, and he didn’t like feeling like a stranger. He didn’t like the sounds of the city, either. He had always lived in small towns and regional areas, and he couldn’t sleep well with all of the noise. He considered packing up and leaving again in search of new horizons, but he figured he would carry a certain kind of contempt for every place he found himself in. It was loneliness that he was carrying around in his suitcase, and that wasn’t something he could just leave behind. The only common denominator in every place he went to was himself. Besides, unlike in Texas, he was making a better living here. While still being horrifically taken advantage of by employers who didn’t care to pay him a fair wage, he was making enough now to get by, which was more than he could say for the past two years of his life.</p><p><em>What songs should I play tonight? </em>He wasn’t looking forward to the gig. He rarely did. A few had been interesting, but in the end he felt as if he were selling out, and he wasn’t even getting paid much. He had to keep up his image, cut his hair (though he had been lacking a little in that department), and play music he wasn’t proud of for rich folk at parties where they hardly listened to him at all. He had considered playing ‘Don’t Call on Me’ again (that one, at least, had some kind of personal part of Mike put into it, even if it was a genre that he had been boxed into by his audience), but it seemed a little bit pathetic, playing a song written about someone who would never hear it. Johnny never came to Mike’s gigs. Johnny never hung around unless he needed something. <em>Will I see him today? </em>Probably not. Johnny was likely out doing something, or someone, else.</p><p>Still, that thought seemed unnecessarily cruel and bitter. It wasn’t as though Johnny didn’t care for Mike at all, but he had certain hang ups about their fraternisation. He cared too much about appearances, was all – he had to be the perfect son, the perfect brother, the poster child for societal values, and none of those things allowed for anything queer. And yet, Mike still worried that the convenience of their relationship was all Johnny cared for. He could get his kicks behind closed doors, no strings attached, and in the morning he could leave and the people in the outside world would be none the wiser.</p><p>Mike stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray with a sigh. He was tired of all the self-loathing and he couldn’t ignore his aching stomach much longer, so he stood and walked to the kitchen. The cupboards were bare and the fridge almost empty. Mike rubbed his sleepy eyes. <em>I need to get groceries.</em> He had been putting it off for longer than he should have. He still had a few oranges, some milk, butter and bread. He decided to skip the milk, and preferred not to have plain bread and butter, and so he reached for an orange. He turned to one of the drawers (it got stuck as he tried to open it and he had to jangle it out) and grabbed a knife. But as soon as he had grabbed the knife, he hit his elbow and dropped it. He heard it clatter across the linoleum. <em>Shit.</em> The knife had gotten him on his calf somehow, and on his foot as well, though the cut on his foot was only shallow. His calf, however, wasn’t looking too good. For a moment he simply watched, stunned as he saw blood dripping slowly onto the floor. Then he felt the sting. <em>Fuck.</em></p><p>He managed to slow the bleeding with a paper towel, and mop up what had dripped onto the floor, but he couldn’t find bandages or anything that could work as a bandage anywhere. The sun had just come up and was streaming weakly through the windows of Mike’s apartment. He would have to go out and get some bandages, but no drug store would be open this early. The orange lay forgotten on the counter, the knife still on the floor. Mike cleaned them up as he thought about what to do.</p><p>There was a pharmacy down the road close to the university that was usually open early. Mike hadn’t gone in before, but he had walked past in the early hours of the morning and the lights had been turned on inside. Mike checked the clock. 7:30 am. He might as well try.</p><p>Going back to the bedroom, he changed out of his pyjamas, grabbed his wallet and his keys, and headed out into the street. The chilly morning air bit at his face and made his lips feel slightly numb. <em>I thought California was meant to be warm. </em></p><p>Mike was out of luck; the door to the drug store was locked and the inside was dim. The shop was empty save for the shelves of unattended products. The image of it gave Mike a strange feeling he couldn’t quite describe. Mostly he was just annoyed at it being shut. What was he going to do now?</p><p>“Mike!” A voice called out to him, both the luckiest thing that could happen to him that morning and simultaneously the unluckiest. Mike’s head whipped around. At first, he was confused as to who was calling out to him by name and why, but he realised he knew that voice, and when he turned, he recognised the face attached to it.</p><p>“Huh– Mick– Micky?” Mike stuttered. Yet there Micky was, waving to him, dressed in a polo shirt and tie and a name badge that confirmed his identity, and, most surprisingly, sporting a mop of frizzy curls on top of his head. Micky noticed Mike’s shocked look, and looked down at his uniform, realising his mistake in calling out for Mike. “Your hair!”</p><p>Micky had his own moment of shock at how Mike had changed since their last conversation. He had spoken so carefully and eloquently every other time they had met, and he had only the faintest hint of a southern drawl. Now his accent was thick and so obviously Texan, and his voice was cracking and stuttering. More than that, he had a ratty jean jacket and flannel button up, and his hair was messy and hanging in his eyes.</p><p>“Your accent!” Micky said in response. Mike blushed red and his eyes were wide, He was so obviously uncomfortable, so Micky changed the subject. “Did you need to buy something?”</p><p>Micky pointed in the store. Mike nodded quickly, looking at Micky’s hand instead of his face.</p><p>“I, uh, had an accident this morning,” Mike mumbled. “Involving a knife.”</p><p>“Well, you’re in luck,” Micky said, almost too cheerily, trying to overcompensate for Mike’s nervousness. “I work here.”</p><p>“Oh,” Mike said simply. Micky had a pair of keys in his hand and they jingled as he unlocked the door. Mike hadn’t put two and two together, with the uniform and Micky being here as early as he was, he had only been caught up in the humiliating experience of being perceived. In his hungry and sleep-deprived brain he remembered wondering why a trust-fund kid would be working a minimum wage job.</p><p>Micky opened the door for Mike, a bell chiming as he did so that brought him out of his haze. He remembered why he was here.</p><p>“I’ll be at the counter, if you need me,” Micky said</p><p>Mike nodded and grabbed a box of bandages, and another packet of cigarettes (he wouldn’t need them any time soon, but he might as well get them while he was here). He brought the items to Micky for him to ring up.</p><p>“I gotta say, I didn’t exactly expect you to be so different in your everyday life,” Micky said, trying to find some way to fill the awkward silence, as he always did (though Mike didn’t know about this habit of his). “You know, compared to …”</p><p>“Didn’t expect me to be so much of a hick, huh?” Mike said softly, though the way he said it was almost spiteful.</p><p>“Not exactly,” Micky laughed, giving him an incredulous look. “Bet you didn’t expect me to be a university student working for minimum wage, though.”</p><p>“You are?” Mike asked, finally realising what it meant for Micky to be here, serving him at this counter, in this part of the city. Micky’s look somehow became even more incredulous and he giggled again, though Mike didn’t feel like there was much malice in it.</p><p>“You think I would be here this early if I was the son of a CEO?” Micky asked. Mike shook his head and smiled a little to himself. “That’s fifty-six cents.”</p><p>“I’m mostly just surprised at the hair,” Mike joked, handing over the money. Micky self-consciously patted down his curls.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, ha-ha,” Micky chuckled. “It’s naturally like this, but I usually straighten it, it’s just a lot of effort sometimes.”</p><p>“I like it,” Mike said. His compliments now were delivered with a certain shyness when they hadn’t been before. “It suits you.”</p><p>Micky blushed. “Are you performing tonight?”</p><p>“Yeah, I am, actually,” Mike answered. “At some place downtown.”</p><p>“What’s the address?” Micky asked. Mike raised a questioning eyebrow, but still told him where it was.</p><p>“I thought you weren’t going to go to anymore of those types of things,” Mike said.</p><p>“I’m a very fickle person, Mike,” Micky teased. “I might see you tonight, I might not.”</p><p>“See you tonight, then,” Mike said, smiling to himself as he turned and walked out of the shop.</p><p>Sure enough, Micky was in the crowd that night. The question of whether Micky would be there had been at the back of his mind all day, at home when he was fixing up his leg, in the grocery store where he bounced on the balls of his feet, at the venue when he was tuning his guitar. He eagerly searched the audience for him until he had found him, standing by the door. Micky winked at him and Mike blushed red. Then he was starting his first song and he was swept away by the muscle memory that got him through every performance.</p><p>“Another brilliant show Mr Nesmith, thank you,” Micky said to him in an over the top posh accent. He hadn’t waited for Mike to find him when he was finished his set and had instead waited outside the room Mike had gone into to pack up his things. Mike’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to figure out something clever to say and came up empty. “You don’t gotta pretend to be all fancy or anything, it’s kind of pointless keeping up the act now.”</p><p>“Your hair’s straight again,” Mike said instead, gesturing to the hair atop Micky’s head.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, groovy, huh?” Micky laughed, his eyes shooting upwards, though he wasn’t able to see his hair anyway. He self consciously patted it again.</p><p>“Guh-<em>roovy</em>,” Mike laughed, trying out the word.</p><p>“You’re strange,” Micky said, linking their arms together and walking them over to a lounge to talk. Micky crossed his legs and leaned his elbow on the back of the lounge to face Mike.</p><p>“So, I really do know nothing about you, huh?” Mike pondered aloud to Micky. “Even when I thought I was dragging some information out of you.”</p><p>“I never technically lied to you,” Micky pointed out. “I may have left out some information, but I do like your music, I am eighteen and I do like the colour green. And you’re one to talk, you’re more of a mystery than I am!”</p><p>“Well, what do you want to know?” Mike asked.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Micky sighed exaggeratedly, tipping his head to the side. “What brings you to California?”</p><p>Mike bit his lip.</p><p>“I, uh, left home at seventeen, ‘n’ stayed around Texas for a bit looking for work and when that work was a bust, I went looking for something better,” Mike shrugged. He picked at the fingernails on his left hand. “It was sometime last year, I think. Anyway, I kinda just … ended up here a few months ago.”</p><p>“I’m guessing that means no expensive classical guitar lessons and Carnegie Hall,” Micky said, pouting in a way that would have seemed insensitive if he had been anyone else.</p><p>“No, nothing even close to it,” Mike shook his head.</p><p>“Aw, man,” Micky sighed. “I really thought I had you pegged.”</p><p>“Well, you didn’t,” Mike said, with a self-satisfied grin.</p><p>“I have to say that I like this voice better,” Micky told him.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“When we were talking before, and you thought I was some spoiled brat and I thought you were an uptight child prodigy,” Micky began to explain. “You spoke slowly so you didn’t trip over your words. And you played down the whole Texas thing and kind of talked – “ Micky lowered his voice, so it was deeper and came out in a breathy hush “ – <em>Like this</em>. But I like your natural voice. It’s got a nice, I don’t know, <em>cadence </em>or whatever, an interesting rhythm to the way you speak. And I like the accent, it’s cute.”</p><p>“I’m not trying to be cute,” Mike argued.</p><p>“Well, we don’t always get to choose who we are,” Micky said.</p><p>“Says you,” Mike retorted.</p><p>“Says me,” Micky mused. “Well, you’d think I’d know that more than anyone, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>They spoke to each other for a little longer, but Mike was tired still and soon they were walking together out onto the street. Eventually Mike slowed to a stop at a turn that split into two streets.</p><p>“This one’s where I turn,” Mike said. “Do you live nearby?”</p><p>“I live at the college. In the dorms,” Micky replied. They stood in silence for a moment. Mike opened his mouth to say goodbye at the same time that Micky asked: “How’s the injury? From this morning?”</p><p>“Oh,” Mike chuckled, pulling up the leg of his pants to show Micky his calf wrapped up in bandages. “It’s alright now. It looked worse than it actually was.”</p><p>“That’s good,” Micky yawned. “Anyway, I really gotta run. I got a morning class and I need all the beauty sleep I can get.”</p><p>“Okay,” Mike nodded back. He fidgeted with his hands. “Goodbye, then.”</p><p>“Until next time,” Micky smiled. Mike nodded again, though Micky’s back was turned, and he couldn’t see the gesture. Mike turned up his own street with his guitar on his back wondering if he would ever see Micky’s face again. That seemed to be a common thought these days, and the answer always appeared to be ‘yes’.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Ramblin' Boy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Cause I am called the ramblin’ boy<br/>Like the wind that is so free”</p>
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    <p>Mike was napping on his couch when he was awoken by a knock at the door. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and smoothed down his hair once he had sat up. He hadn’t remembered falling asleep. Another insistent knock came.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Mike said, mostly to himself. “Hold your horses, I’m comin’.”</p><p>His bare feet shuffled across the linoleum as he went to the door and opened it, the bright light from outside burning his tired eyes.</p><p>“Micky?” Mike asked, squinting at the figure in the door.</p><p>“You’re very difficult to find, you know?” Micky said, pushing past Mike into his apartment without a hello. Mike stared at the curly-haired wonder currently standing in his living room.</p><p>“So how <em>did</em> you find me?” Mike asked, grabbing a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and holding it between his teeth, looking for a lighter. He offered a smoke to Micky, who shook his head. “And why?”</p><p>“Well, I was hoping you would come to the drug store so I could just <em>ask</em> you, but you never did,” Micky explained. “And I knew you lived nearby, so I just asked around if anyone knew anything about a weird Texan man who just moved in.”</p><p>“And what brings you here?” Mike asked, flopping himself down on the couch and lighting his cigarette.</p><p>“I got a week off of classes and I’m bored,” Micky sighed, flopping down beside Mike, then crossing his legs underneath him. “I was thinking we could go out.”</p><p>“And you chose me of all people to go out with?” Mike scoffed, taking a drag from his cigarette. “You must be bored.”</p><p>“Actually, you’re the least boring person I know,” Micky said, with full sincerity. “I’m not really close to anyone at school.”</p><p>“Are you saying we’re ‘close’?” Mike retorted. “Micky, we’ve spoken four times.”</p><p>“Five times now,” Micky corrected. “Come on, Mike, do you want to get out of this depressing apartment or not?”</p><p>Mike couldn’t argue with that. He sighed in mock annoyance.</p><p>“What time is it?” Mike asked. Micky bit his lip with a barely contained smile and looked at his wristwatch.</p><p>“Eleven,” Micky answered. Mike tipped his head back, so he was looking up at the ceiling and groaned.</p><p>“You’re not gonna take no for an answer are ya?” Mike asked, still looking towards the roof of his apartment.</p><p>“Nope,” Micky grinned.</p><p>“Fine,” Mike said, and Micky practically bounced out of his seat and skipped to the door. “Just let me grab my jacket.”</p><p>Mike stood, taking his cigarette between his lips as he searched for his denim jacket and pulled it over his shoulders. He pulled his boots on and leant over to stub his smoke out in the ashtray on the coffee table. When he caught his reflection in the window, he tried to fix his hair a little bit by pushing it out of his eyes and running his fingers through the knots. Micky was watching him and waiting impatiently by the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet and grinning widely.</p><p>“You’re like a puppy, you know?” Mike said.</p><p>“I <em>have</em> heard that comparison before,” Micky replied, opening the door and walking out into the sunlight, looking back for Mike to catch up. Mike was shaking his head, but he was smiling, nonetheless.</p><p>Micky lead him to a coffee shop that he had said he liked, and they sat down together in a booth. Mike had expected Micky to sit opposite to him, but instead he slipped in beside him. Mike leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes. He seemed to always be tired these days.</p><p>“You look like you need the coffee,” Micky said.</p><p>“I feel like it too,” Mike replied. “Every second I spend waiting is agony.”</p><p>Micky laughed at his dry sense of humour. When their coffee came Micky barely waited for it to cool down. He wrapped both of his hands around the mug, blew on the drink quickly a few times and then greedily took a gulp. He winced at the heat and his expression caused Mike to burst into a laugh.</p><p>“You did that to yourself,” Mike snickered. Micky shrugged sheepishly and grinned, eyes creasing at the edges. Micky saw Mike’s crooked teeth that he had only caught small glimpses of before (presumably because Mike had been making an effort to hide them) and, though he didn’t say it, he thought they were endearing. He thought a lot about Mike was endearing now, though he had previously been a little intimidated by him at the parties.</p><p>Mike leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, silently sipping his coffee. He had his foot resting on the seat of the booth, his knee bent between him and Micky. Micky rested his elbow on top of it.</p><p>“So, what’s your favourite colour?” Micky asked.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“You know my favourite colour, but I don’t know yours,” Micky elaborated. “So … what is it?”</p><p>“Oh,” Mike said. “I don’t know, probably green as well. It’s the colour I wear the most.”</p><p>He motioned down to his green shirt.</p><p>“You also wear blue a lot,” Micky stated. “Though that’s probably all the denim.”</p><p>“How many times have you seen me outside of work?” Mike asked. “How do you know what I do and do not wear?”</p><p>Micky shrugged. “I figured I was safe to assume. Was I correct?”</p><p>“I’m not answerin’ that,” Mike frowned, taking another sip of his coffee.</p><p>“Come on, Mikey,” Micky pouted, resting his chin on the arm that was balancing on Mike’s knee and looking at him with pleading eyes.</p><p>“Don’t call me that,” Mike said, kicking Micky’s thigh lightly with the tip of his boot and swinging his leg under the table, causing Micky to lose balance with Mike’s knee no longer there to lean on.</p><p>“You’re so mean to me,” Micky fake sobbed, dramatically folding his arms on the table and hiding his face in them.</p><p>“You deserve it,” Mike shot back.</p><p>“I could just die from a broken heart,” Micky said, coming out a little muffled as he refused to look up from the table.</p><p>“Are you always acting like this?” Mike asked. Micky shot up with a grin, the corner of his eyes wrinkling with glee yet again. Mike stared at them intently.</p><p>“All the time, babe,” Micky said. “And you’re stuck with me now. Strict no-return policy.”</p><p>“Aw shit,” Mike sighed. “Guess we’ll just have to leave you in the dump out back.”</p><p>Micky giggled. He laughed at all of Mike’s jokes, even when Mike was afraid that he was coming off too harsh. Micky finished his coffee quickly, gulping it down with vigour despite the temperature, but Mike was only halfway through his. Micky never complained about Mike’s pace, but it was clear he wasn’t the most patient person. When Mike set his empty cup down, Micky was asking to go immediately.</p><p>“Come on, I’ve been dying to take you somewhere,” Micky said. “You don’t strike me as the type of person who’s seen much of LA.”</p><p>“You would be correct,” Mike said.</p><p>Micky wasted no time pulling Mike out of the booth and leading them to their next destination, which happened to be a corner store. Mike was a little confused, but he figured he would just go with it. Micky didn’t explain anything about his plan either and Mike didn’t ask. He was beginning to accept that Micky was just weird. Mike followed Micky to the checkout, where he bought nothing but a loaf of bread. Then they were off again, down the streets of LA. Micky walked fast, and Mike struggled to keep up. Then they stopped at a park near the university.</p><p>“There,” Micky said, pointing in the distance and breaking out into a jog in the direction of a duck pond.</p><p>“Micky, wait!” Mike called, trying to catch up with him. Micky had stopped at the edge of the pond and when Mike finally stood next to him, Micky handed him a slice of bread.</p><p>“Here,” he said, shoving the slice into Mike’s hands. Mike didn’t catch on at first and stared dumbfounded; Micky had to grab his hand and open his palm himself to place the bread in it.</p><p>“What?” Mike asked, while Micky was busying himself trying to get him to take the bread.</p><p>“For the ducks, dummy,” Micky explained, pointing to the pond. “Did you not feed ducks in Texas?”</p><p>“We did,” Mike said. “But you just confuse me, always going so fast. Besides, I don’t even see any ducks.”</p><p>“You will,” Micky said. “Watch.”</p><p>Mike watched as Micky tore off a small piece of bread and tossed it into the water. In no time, a flock of ducks were swimming from seemingly nowhere towards them. The ducks were fighting over the singular piece of bread Micky had thrown, so Mike threw a few more in out of sympathy for the birds that had missed out. Micky was watching him happily as they fed the ducks in silence.</p><p>“I never asked you what you studied,” Mike spoke up.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“You told me you were in university,” Mike repeated. “And I never asked you what you studied.”</p><p>“Oh,” Micky chuckled. “It’s got stuff to do with chemistry and things like that. It was my favourite subject in high school but … I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right anymore.”</p><p>“Do you not like it?” Mike asked.</p><p>“I kinda hate it,” Micky said, letting out a small, singular laugh devoid of humour. “But I don’t wanna disappoint my parents because it’s expensive and it was hard enough just getting into my course.”</p><p>Mike felt a spike of jealousy, and deep resentment that he tried to keep down. He had never had the chance to go to college and didn’t think he would have been smart enough for it if he had the opportunity, and Micky was taking all of that for granted. But he didn’t want to ruin things so soon with this kid that he liked talking to, so he bit his tongue and kept his lips sealed. He kept his feelings close to his chest.</p><p>“This place is close by the college,” Mike said, trying to steer the conversation away from topics that would bring Micky down. “Do you come here often?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Micky replied. “I can’t stand being cooped up in my dorm all day. Gotta stretch my legs, you know?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Mike shook his head. “If I could stay in my apartment all day, I would.”</p><p>“We are very different people, then,” Micky said.</p><p>Mike had finished his slice and dug his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket. Wordlessly, Micky handed him another.</p><p>“You can just ask for another, you know?” Micky told him as Mike took the slice with both hands.</p><p>“You’re not gonna use the whole loaf on the ducks, are you?” Mike asked. He couldn’t wrap his head around Micky’s frivolity.</p><p>“Not <em>all </em>of it,” Micky defended himself. “But ducks’ve gotta eat too.”</p><p>Mike shook his head with a slight smile as he threw another torn off piece of bread into the pond, aiming far to watch the ducks swim for it. They kept feeding the ducks together, more and more of them gradually joining the flock. Mike didn’t know where they kept coming from.</p><p>Eventually they were halfway through the loaf of bread and Micky decided that the ducks had had enough food for the day. He started wandering off, beckoning Mike to follow him. They strolled around the park, side by side, Micky pointing out the best places to sit, and telling him stories of his time there, like when he had been reading a book underneath a tree and had fallen asleep and gotten painfully sunburnt, or when he had come here after a party and swum in the pond while drunk.</p><p>It was afternoon when Micky asked, “Are you working tonight?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Mike replied. “I should probably get ready soon, I gotta be there early to help set things up.”</p><p>“Can I come with you?” Micky asked. Mike looked at him in disbelief.</p><p>“You’re gonna get tired of me, boy,” Mike said.</p><p>“Please?” Micky begged. “I can come as your plus one and then I don’t have to sneak in.”</p><p>“I don’t even know if musicians <em>get</em> a plus one,” Mike reasoned.</p><p>“I’ll improvise,” Micky shot back.</p><p>“Okay. Fine,” Mike caved in. “You’re a persistent fella, aren’t ya?”</p><p>Mike was expecting Micky to split and go to his own place to get dressed, but he followed Mike back to his apartment. He closed the door behind him as Mike shrugged off his denim jacket.</p><p>Mike left Micky in the living room to go to his bedroom in the search of the suit jacket he had left hanging in his closet. He had stripped off the button up he had been wearing all day when Micky poked his head in the door.</p><p>“Can I borrow some clothes?” Micky asked.</p><p>“Why didn’t you just go home and get clothes there?” Mike asked in return.</p><p>“I forgot I would need to get changed,” Micky answered, with an apologetic smile.</p><p>Mike shook his head and ratted around in his dresser for something Micky could wear. He threw a wrinkled bunch of clothes in Micky’s direction that he caught with both hands (though he had failed to catch the tie, and it fell to the floor).</p><p>“You’ll need to iron them,” Mike explained. “The board’s in the kitchen, the iron in the bathroom under the sink.”</p><p>“Thanks, Mike,” Micky nodded.</p><p>Mike showered first while Micky ironed his clothes. He was doing his hair when Micky pounded on the door.</p><p>“Do you always take this long?” Micky yelled. Mike scoffed.</p><p>“Gotta get my hair looking all proper for the uptight folks that hire me,” Mike called back.</p><p>“Surely it’s got to be looking alright by now,” Micky complained impatiently. “Did you dump a whole bucket of grease on it or something?”</p><p>Mike blew out a breath and turned away from the mirror. He yanked the door open to see Micky with a shit-eating grin on his face. He looked Mike up and down, leaning on the wall adjacent to the door. Mike glared at him.</p><p>“You really need to learn some patience,” Mike snapped. Micky looked into Mike’s eyes and kept smiling.</p><p>“You look good,” he said, ignoring Mike’s quip, and pushed past him into the bathroom, shutting the door in Mike’s stunned face.</p><p>Mike waited in the living room for Micky. <em>He’s taking longer than me, the hypocrite. </em>He lit up a cigarette while he was waiting and smoked it on the couch. He tapped his fingers on his knees, wondering how much longer Micky would be taking. The fucker was using up all of his hot water.</p><p>Mike had finished his smoke by the time Micky came back out, with his top button undone and his tie hanging loose around his neck. Mike reflexively stood to fix Micky’s collar and to tie his tie for him.</p><p>“You don’t own a straightener,” Micky said. Mike’s eyes looked up to Micky’s mop of curls.</p><p>“Never needed one,” Mike shrugged, still working on Micky’s tie. “Just wear it curly, it looks better that way, anyway. Makes you look prettier.”</p><p>“Am I not pretty with straight hair?” Micky teased.</p><p>“Of course, you are,” Mike assured him. Micky wasn’t sure if Mike knew he had been joking. “But you’re gonna damage it if you straighten it all the time.”</p><p>“What do you know about hair?” Micky asked defensively.</p><p>“I know that I like yours,” Mike said, brushing dust off of Micky’s jacket. “And I like it <em>especially</em> when it’s curly.”</p><p>Micky thought that he pronounced the word ‘especially’ strangely, but that was another part of Mike that was endearing to him. That and the way he straightened Micky’s tie once more, then turned to grab up his guitar case and keys.</p><p>“I know how to tie a tie, Mike,” Micky told him. Mike shrugged in response and held the door open for him.</p><p>Just as Mike said, they got to the venue early and Mike busied himself with amps and microphones and wires while Micky sat cross legged in the middle of the stage. He had never been able to witness this part of the parties before – the hustle and bustle of the behind the scenes. Waiters and waitresses rushing back and forth between the kitchen and who knows where, setting up chairs and tables. A couple were sneakily snacking on some of the smaller items of food they carried around on trays, a couple more were sitting in the corner, watching their co-workers go by, hoping their bosses didn’t catch them slacking off. He felt entirely invisible to the people working around him in a way he never had during the parties, and it was strangely exhilarating.</p><p>Well, he felt invisible to everyone except Mike, who every now and then would check where he was and smile softly at him.</p><p>There was a jazz band playing before Mike, and they were tuning their instruments around him. He watched as a man played a singular note on his saxophone, then adjusted his tuning by twisting parts of it, then trying again. A lady was turning the pegs of her double bass and plucking the strings. Mike came and sat next to Micky, watching where he was looking, with his legs crossed and his guitar resting in his lap. Micky reached over and strummed the strings once. It was a beautiful guitar.</p><p>Micky didn’t bother to talk to the people at the party that night. He watched Mike play, sitting at a table close to the stage, and when he finished, Micky followed him into the back room, where the bands’ instruments were stored, and extra chairs were stacked in the corner. Mike slung his guitar case onto his back, wrapped an arm around Micky’s shoulders and walked him home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. All I Want</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I am on a lonely road and<br/>I am traveling, traveling, traveling, traveling<br/>Looking for something, what can it be.”</p>
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    <p>Micky was at Mike’s door again the next morning, carrying a pile of haphazardly folded clothes in his arms. He knocked on the door, clutching the clothes tightly to his chest with one hand so he didn’t drop them. He had made an effort to wash them and iron out all the creases and he didn’t want them to immediately get dirty. It was a windy morning and the air whipped at Micky’s face while he waited for Mike to answer the door. He danced around on his tippy toes, trying to get warm. He wished he could pull his sweater over his hands to warm them up, but they were full of the clothes.</p><p>When the door finally opened, the man staring him down was not Mike.</p><p>“Who are you?” Micky asked the stranger. He was tall, taller than Mike, and he had fair hair cropped close to his face.</p><p>“I could ask you the same question, kid,” he said contemptuously, frowning slightly. Micky didn’t tend to dislike people right off the bat, but this guy seemed to be making an active campaign to get on his bad side.</p><p>“I’m here to see Mike,” Micky explained.</p><p>“Oh, let him in, Johnny,” Micky heard Mike call from the living room. Micky pushed past Johnny into the living room (trying to hide the smugness he felt), where he saw Mike drinking a cup of coffee on the couch. “It’s just Micky.”</p><p>“You’re Micky?” Johnny asked, one eyebrow raised. His eyebrows were unusually thick. Micky tried to find a hint of judgement in his tone, but was unsure if it was actually there, or if he was just being insecure in the face of this seemingly supercilious stranger.</p><p>“Yeah, I am,” Micky clarified, and he stood a little bit straighter. “Why? Has Mike been saying bad things about me?”</p><p>“Quite the opposite, actually,” Johnny told him, with what Micky thought to be a hint of jealousy in his tone. Mike rolled his eyes and looked away from the pair. Johnny gathered up his coat, grabbed a cigarette from the open pack on the coffee table and held it between his teeth. “I’m heading out, Mike.”</p><p>Mike waved, but Johnny was already gone. Micky watched him go, brow furrowed, before he turned to Mike and sat on the armchair adjacent to the couch. Micky’s curious eyes lingered on the door.</p><p>“Who was that?” Micky asked.</p><p>“A friend,” Mike answered simply, and almost too quickly. “Name’s Johnny.”</p><p>Micky turned his gaze onto Mike. He wasn’t dumb. Mike was sat with his coffee in an old t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He assumed Johnny had stayed the night, considering Mike wasn’t dressed, and he was there so early. Looking closer, the final nail in the coffin was a faint trace of hickeys between Mike’s neck and his shoulder. Micky wasn’t dumb; he could put two and two together on Mike’s relationship to Johnny.</p><p>Micky kept his mouth shut.</p><p>“I’m sorry if he was rude to you,” Mike apologised on behalf of Johnny. “He gets a little skittish around new people, but he’s fine once he warms up to you. He’s like a cat.”</p><p><em>Skittish isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe him. </em>Still, Micky took Mike’s word for it. Johnny seemed plenty warmed up to Mike.</p><p>All of a sudden, Micky remembered why he had come at all, and almost jumped at the realisation with a small ‘oh!’. He passed the pile of clothes into Mike’s lap.</p><p>“Here are your clothes,” Micky said. “I can’t stay long; I should probably be using my week’s break to study.”</p><p>“How about I come with?” Mike suggested, remembering how Micky had said that he hated being cooped up in his dorm all day. He figured the kid could probably use some company. “I can help you.”</p><p>Micky shrugged. Mike ducked into his bedroom, leaving Micky in the armchair, twiddling his thumbs. He looked at the living room around him, curiosity taking over him as he couldn’t help but snoop. His mom had always told him that décor was a dead giveaway to someone’s personality, but Mike’s apartment was almost bare. Maybe that said something about Mike. There was a lumpy dark blue couch with holes in the cushions, the scratchy armchair Micky was sitting in, a simple wooden coffee table with scratches on the surface and a small black and white television. An acoustic guitar leant against a wall that lead into a small kitchen with hardly enough room to stand in. The apartment had been dark every time Micky had been there, on account of the curtains always being shut. Micky couldn’t help but go to the curtains and open them, just so he didn’t have to sit still. <em>There. Now he can get more Vitamin D. </em>Micky thought that even Mike’s shabby apartment looked nice when it was in the sunlight.</p><p>Mike reappeared from his bedroom, fully dressed, with his usual denim jacket. He looked to the curtains but didn’t mention them.</p><p>“Catch,” Mike warned Micky before he threw a ball of clothes in his direction. Micky caught them – barely. “They’re your clothes from yesterday.”</p><p>“Oh,” Micky laughed, staring at the heap of clothes in his hands. “If you hadn’t given ‘em back I probably would have never noticed they were missing.”</p><p>“You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on,” Mike shook his head. The phrase reminded Micky of his mother. “Are you ready to go?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Micky nodded eagerly. “Yeah, let’s go.”</p><p>Mike locked the door behind him as they left for Micky’s dorm. Walking along the sidewalk, Micky talked relentlessly while Mike quietly listened to the stories he was recounting. Something about a vindictive professor, a classmate who kept trying to flirt with him, a house party he had gone to a couple of weeks ago. Mike nodded along, trying to keep up with Micky’s fast pace, and how he jumped from one topic to the next with seemingly no warning.</p><p>Then, out of nowhere, Micky asked, “Do you know much about chemistry? You know, to be able to help me study?”</p><p>“Well, it was my favourite subject in school, too,” Mike replied. “’Til my dad ditched, and I had to drop out to help my ma with my brothers and sisters.”</p><p>“Oh,” Micky faltered. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It was a while ago now,” Mike shrugged, noticing how he had brought the mood down significantly with his bullshit. He tried to recover the conversation. “And I probably won’t be able to help much, but I thought you would want the company. Might make your time more easy passing.”</p><p>He didn’t mention that he would also be enjoying Micky’s company, but he thought that went unsaid.</p><p>Micky held the door open for Mike, and Mike stepped inside and got a good look at Micky’s room for the first time. The walls were covered with photos of people Mike didn’t recognise, various posters for bands that showcased his music taste to everyone who entered (several of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Little Richard and more), and little notes and doodles he had drawn on sticky notes. His bed was unmade with about five different pillows clustered together on top. There was a little wooden desk in the corner with stacks of textbooks and notebooks and scattered pens on the surface, with barely any room to actually write anything on it.</p><p>Micky sat in the spinning desk chair, shuffled around some of the clutter on his desk and grabbed a pair of circular glasses he had found near one of the textbooks. He slipped them over his nose and kept rearranging things, looking for something specific.</p><p>“You wear glasses?” Mike asked, immediately feeling a little stupid, considering the answer was obvious.</p><p>“Only for reading,” Micky said. “They make me look hideous.”</p><p>“I think they’re cute,” Mike argued. He took them from Micky’s face and put them on himself, raising his eyebrows with the silent question: <em>how do I look? </em>Micky scrunched up his nose and spun his chair around, with his knees tucked up to his chest. Mike handed Micky his glasses back and he took them and picked up one of his textbooks.</p><p>“I need to read a chapter before class next week,” he explained to Mike. “There’s not much I’ll need help with, but there’s some chemical equations and stuff that have got me stumped.”</p><p>Micky opened the chapter and Mike leaned over his shoulder to get a good look at the page. Without a prompt from Mike, Micky began reading out loud, explaining some of the concepts and stopping every now and then to take notes.</p><p>“The rest of the chapter is just chemical equations and things,” Micky explained, not bothering to turn around to face Mike. He was leaning on the back of Micky’s chair and their faces were only inches apart. “I’ve gotten through most of them, but there’s a few that I just can’t wrap my head around.”</p><p>Mike nudged Micky’s shoulder with the back of his hand and reached over to lay it on the textbook. Micky could feel Mike’s hair tickling his cheek and could hear his breathing next to his ear.</p><p>“Let me have a go at it,” he said. Micky stood up for Mike to take his seat. “I remember doing some formula stuff or whatever in high school, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything like this.”</p><p>“Worth a shot,” Micky shrugged.</p><p>Mike worked silently, chewing on the end of Micky’s pencil with a sheet of paper in front of him. Mostly he was frowning at the textbook. Every now and then he would write something, look it over, and cross some things out. He was leaning over the book, brows furrowed in focus when he saw a flash in the corner of his eye. He turned to Micky, who was on the other side of the small room with a camera in front of his face.</p><p>“Quit getting distracted,” Mike scolded. Micky grinned and shook out the polaroid.</p><p>“Come on, Mikey,” he pouted.</p><p>“I told you not to call me that,” he grumbled, but Micky could see that he was trying hard to fight back a smile despite himself.</p><p>“Sorry, Mikey,” he said with a snicker. “I’m hungry, I’m gonna get us something to eat. Be right back.”</p><p>Mike nodded, still hunched over the textbook.</p><p>Micky was back soon, with a muffin in each hand. Mike was still huddled over the desk, but there were significantly more pieces of crumpled paper surrounding him. His shoulders were tense, and his hands gripped at his hair.</p><p>“I hope you like choc chip,” Micky said happily, before taking in Mike’s state. “Hey, are you okay? Any luck?”</p><p>“No,” Mike grumbled quietly, voice shaking. His face turned away from Micky’s.</p><p>“Hey,” Micky said softly, laying one hand on Mike’s shoulders. Mike moved away from his touch. “What’s wrong? … And don’t say nothing.”</p><p>“It’s just,” Mike began with a sigh, leaning backwards heavily in Micky’s chair. It spun a little with his weight.  “It’s so stupid – “ Mike rolled his eyes and pulled at his hair again “ – I just didn’t want you to think I’m dumb. Because I can’t do it.”</p><p>“Mike,” Micky chuckled softly. He crouched down next to him. Micky took hold of the hand that Mike was using to pull his hair out and placed it on the arm of the chair, his own hands resting gently over the top of it. “This stuff is university level chemistry, man. I can’t even do most of it.”</p><p>“It’s just embarrassing,” Mike mumbled, eyes looking out the window and cheeks blushing bright red. “Being a high school drop-out and stuff.”</p><p>“That wasn’t your fault,” Micky pointed out. “And even if it was, you know, stuff happens. I wouldn’t like you any less even if you couldn’t read a single word of English. That stuff doesn’t matter.”</p><p>Mike seemed unconvinced and took his hand out from underneath Micky’s palms. He folded his arms across his chest and sulked in the chair. Micky bit his lip, trying to figure out what he could say that would make him cheer up.</p><p>“Do you want to hear my impression of the <em>inimitable</em> James Cagney?” Micky asked, standing up next to Mike.</p><p>Mike’s eyes snapped to Micky with a wildly confused expression on his face.</p><p>“<em>Okay, you dirty rat,</em>” Micky hissed, making some weird movement with his hands. “<em>I’m gonna get you, you dirty rat.</em>”</p><p>Mike stared at Micky, still completely confused, and unsure of how to react. But he was too bewildered to be sad or embarrassed anymore, which meant Micky had been successful in his ploy.</p><p>“You’re a weird cat, Micky,” Mike said, hints of a smile forming on his lips. “Pass me that muffin.”</p><p>Mike often accompanied Micky when he was studying after that, mostly laying on the bed as he read out his textbook to him. He would shout out unhelpful suggestions and jokes that made Micky laugh. Mike didn’t have to put much effort into making him laugh. Every now and then Micky would get stuck on a problem and Mike would reread the chapter and with some explanation from Micky, he would be able to figure some of them out or get close enough for Micky to be able to do the rest. Whenever Mike was able to solve a problem, he would smile to himself and flop back down on Micky’s bed between the many pillows and lay with his hands behind his head, looking satisfied with himself.</p><p>Micky got antsy when he was studying for long periods of time and would start pacing the room, getting frustrated at every little thing he couldn’t understand. Whenever that happened Mike would grab up his keys and he would take Micky to some shitty diner with greasy burgers and soggy fries, or a dirty club where Micky could dance to some rock and roll band that was playing that night. Micky would walk back to Mike’s apartment with him, and every now and then Johnny would be there, waiting for Mike, and Micky knew that he would be walking himself home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. I've Just Seen A Face</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Fallin’, yes, I am fallin’<br/>And she keeps callin’<br/>Me back again.”</p>
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    <p>Micky had a class and Mike was waiting in his dorm. He had to admit that he was getting bored by himself and had begun skimming through Micky’s sci-fi novels that were littered around his room. He had tossed his boots off and was reading on the bed in his socks, a couple of chapters in, when the doorknob finally turned, and Micky stepped in. He saw Mike on the bed and jumped in fright.</p><p>“I always think I’m getting robbed when you do that,” Micky chided, clutching his chest dramatically and placing his textbooks on the desk. Mike smiled sheepishly. “I can’t stay long; I’m visiting my parents for dinner and I can’t miss my bus.”</p><p>“I can drive you,” Mike offered as he swung his legs over the side of the bed to slip his shoes back on. “I’ve got a car.”</p><p>“You do?” Micky asked, his voice coming out muffled because he was in the middle of pulling his shirt over his head to change into a warmer sweater.</p><p>“It’s a piece of shit,” Mike explained, standing to lean against the dresser. “So, I try not to use it when I can.”</p><p>“Okay,” Micky said, pulling on his sweater. “Thanks.”</p><p>“No problem,” Mike shrugged. He happened to glance at the top of the dresser, which had an assortment of knick knacks on the surface, including a green wool hat. Micky was still struggling with his sweater as Mike impulsively put the hat on without thinking.</p><p>“It suits you,” Micky commented once his head finally poked out of the top of the sweater. “You were right, green is your colour.”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“You said green was your favourite colour because it’s what you wear most,” Micky elaborated.</p><p>“How do you remember all that?” Mike asked, self-consciously adjusting the hat.</p><p>“I care about what you have to say,” Micky replied in an <em>‘of course’ </em>kind of tone. Mike shook his head in disbelief and stared at the floor.</p><p>“What time do you want me to pick you up?” Mike asked. Micky rolled his lips together, thinking.</p><p>“You should come,” Micky decided. “You’re polite, my parents’ll love you. Besides it’s free food, and my mom’s a good cook.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Mike asked, biting his lip. “I don’t want to intrude.”</p><p>“They’ll be excited to meet you,” Micky assured him. “My mom loves to embarrass me, and she always cooks way too much, trust me.”</p><p>Mike knew that arguing against Micky was a losing battle. He shrugged, grabbing his denim jacket and heading out behind Micky. They walked back to Mike’s apartment, and he showed Micky where his car was parked. Micky took one look at the car and burst out into laughter.</p><p>“You were right,” he laughed giddily, running a finger along one of the many strips of duct tape on the outside of the car. “This is a piece of shit.”</p><p>“It’s even worse when it’s going,” Mike joked, opening the squeaking passenger door for Micky. “Come on.”</p><p>“You know I could help you fix it up, if you wanted,” Micky said to him once he had swung into the driver’s seat. “My dad taught me how to do stuff like that.”</p><p>“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Mike contended. He turned the key in the ignition and struggled to get the car to start. Micky scoffed at him.</p><p>“I’d only be asking to fix it out of self-preservation,” Micky told him. “Because now that I know you have a car, I’m <em>going</em> to be taking advantage of it. But I’d also like to not fear for my life every time I get in it.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Mike asked. He was almost as stubborn as Micky was. They were on the road now, and Mike was correct – it <em>was </em>worse when it got going.</p><p>“I’m begging you to let me fix it up,” Micky pleaded. “Please, it’ll be a fun project, I love this kind of stuff.”</p><p>Mike stole a small glance at Micky before diverting his eyes back to the road. He sighed. “Fine.”</p><p>Micky clapped his hands together once at his successful campaign. They kept on driving to his house, with him pointing the way to Mike. The air-conditioning was busted, so they wound the windows down and let the wind blow past them and the late afternoon sun beat down on them. It was a warm day compared to the onslaught of cold ones they had been having, and Micky rolled the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows, leaning his head out the window, letting the wind blow his hair back. He had been leaving it curly more often these days.</p><p>Mike hung back behind Micky as he knocked on the door. He stood awkwardly as Micky’s parents opened it and greeted their son, wishing he could be invisible, or at least know what to do with his hands</p><p>“Micky!” Mrs Dolenz exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him. “You’re early!”</p><p>“Hi, mom,” Micky greeted from his mother’s arms. “My friend Mike drove me – “ Micky’s mom finally noticed Mike, who gave a small, awkward wave “ – is it alright if he stays for dinner?”</p><p>“Of course,” Mrs Dolenz replied. She let Micky go and turned to Mike. Mike held out his hand for her to shake, but she seemingly didn’t notice as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a quick hug. “I’m Janelle, Micky’s mom, obviously.”</p><p>“Michael Nesmith,” Mike said in return, head reeling from the effortless affection that Mrs Dolenz showed for him after only just meeting him. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m sorry for intruding on your hospitality, but Micky insisted.”</p><p>“That sounds like Micky,” she said fondly. Then she turned to Micky and said, “He calls me ma’am! I like him already.”</p><p>Micky went inside to greet his father, who was standing in the doorway. He had obviously spoken to him already, as he shook Mike’s hand and said. “George Dolenz. Nice to meet you, Mike. Always glad to meet a friend of Micky’s.”</p><p>Mr Dolenz lead Mike in the house with a hand on his shoulder that almost made him flinch, before he let himself be led into the dining room, where a fifteen year old girl was sat at a chair, reading a book. When she saw him and Micky, she closed her book and walked up to him. She offered an outstretched hand and Mike took it. She had a firm handshake.</p><p>“I’m Coco,” she said to him.</p><p>“Mike,” he said in return.</p><p>“I know,” she nodded simply. “Micky told me all about you. He hasn’t had a friend over since he was in high school.”</p><p>“Coco!” Micky shouted.</p><p>“Do you really play guitar?” Coco asked, ignoring Micky.</p><p>“Yes, I do,” Mike replied.</p><p>“<em>Groovy.</em>”</p><p>Coco returned to her chair and opened her book up once again. Mike was still overwhelmed with how nice everyone was being to him. It seemed like Micky’s whole family was as fast-paced as he was. Almost on cue, Micky’s parents entered the dining room.</p><p>“Micky, he’s wearing your hat!” Mrs Dolenz cooed. <em>Oh. </em>Mike had forgotten he was wearing it. He timidly pulled it off and smoothed down his hair. “Oh, wait here a moment, Mike, I’ll be right back.”</p><p>Mike looked over to Micky, confused as to what his mother was going to do, but he provided no hints – he was only blushing bright red and hiding his face in his hands. Soon, Mrs Dolenz was coming back with a sack, and Micky looked like he was about to die.</p><p>“Micky had a phase in high school where he wanted to learn how to knit,” Mrs Dolenz explained. “But he only ever learned how to make wool hats.”</p><p>She opened the sack and Mike peered inside. Sure enough, the inside was full of wool hats of a dozen different colours.</p><p>“Mom,” Micky complained from behind his hands.</p><p>“Take any that you like,” Mrs Dolenz suggested. She noticed Mike’s hesitation at her offer. “Really, they’re just cluttering up the house and Micky never wears them. Please, take some.”</p><p>Mike picked out a bright blue hat from the pile and shoved it in the pocket of his jean jacket. He smiled thankfully at Mrs Dolenz but was blushing from embarrassment at being offered so many things with no ulterior motives. He pulled the green hat back over his head (he was growing fond of it, now that he knew Micky had made it with his own hands).</p><p>Mrs Dolenz left to start making dinner in the kitchen, leaving Mike to be interrogated by Micky’s dad (and Coco). Mike was surprised when he admitted his aspirations to be a musician and was not met with disappointment from George Dolenz, but only genuine intrigue on what kind of music he played, the type of venues that hired him, and what kind of guitar he owned. He even sounded impressed when Mike told him about his Gretsch.</p><p>“I used to play in my youth,” Mr Dolenz told Mike. “I’m not sure if I still could, though, I’m a bit rusty.”</p><p>“He’s just bluffing in case you’re better than him,” Coco piped up, and Mr Dolenz frowned at her. Mike waited for him to start yelling at her, and cringed away, but it never happened, and Mr Dolenz only laughed heartily.</p><p>“Yeah, dad, you could totally still play,” Micky caught on to Coco’s teasing. “He could play a mean Johnny B. Goode when we were kids, right Coco?”</p><p>Coco nodded energetically. Mr Dolenz chuckled again and shook his head slightly from side to side in a <em>‘kids, am I right?’ </em>kind of gesture.</p><p>Micky was right about his mom cooking too much food. She brought out plate after plate, with the help of Coco and Micky, and the dining table was almost a buffet by the time everything had been placed down on it.</p><p>“Thank you for the meal, Mrs Dolenz,” Mike said to her as she sat down.</p><p>“You have such good manners, Mike,” she replied. “Micky, why can’t you be as polite as him?”</p><p>Micky rolled his eyes exaggeratedly with a smirk and slumped into the seat beside Mike. He leaned on Mike’s shoulder with one arm, dipped a finger into the mashed potato and scooped some into his mouth.</p><p>“Micky! Gross!” Coco shouted. Micky stuck his tongue out at her. “This is why <em>I’m</em> the favourite.”</p><p>Micky’s family started a conversation that Mike could not follow – something about two other girls, presumably Micky’s other sisters, who were at friends’ houses for the night. Mike silently ate his dinner, trying to not be obtrusive. At some point Micky’s mom turned to Mike.</p><p>“Are you from Texas, Mike?” Mrs Dolenz asked. Mike nodded. “I could tell. I grew up in Texas, you know.”</p><p>“You did?” Mike asked out of impulse.</p><p>“Yep,” she clarified. “That makes us birds of a feather, you and I.”</p><p>“I s’pose so,” Mike agreed.</p><p>Mike finished off his dinner. He felt like he would never be hungry again after the meal he just ate. He didn’t think he had ever eaten as much food in his life as he had eaten that night. He should have been pleased, being surrounded by good food and good people, but instead he was chafing underneath it all. He felt an aching deep in his bones that couldn’t quite be aided with Mrs Dolenz’s cooking.</p><p>“The food was lovely, ma’am,” Mike thanked, picking up both his and Micky’s plates to wash up. Mrs Dolenz placed a hand on Mike’s arm to stop him and Mike had to fight back the instinctual flinch that came.</p><p>“Don’t worry about that, I can do it,” she told him. “Actually, wait here just a minute, I’ll be back.”</p><p>Mike sat back down, placing his and Micky’s plates stacked in front of him. She soon came back, holding a polaroid camera that was similar to the one Micky had in his room.</p><p>“<em>Mom</em>,” Coco whined, but Mrs Dolenz ignored her.</p><p>“Smile for the camera,” she called at them. “That means you too, Mike.”</p><p>The camera flashed and whirred as it spat out the film. She took it out and shook it, then she walked over to Mike and handed it to him.</p><p>“You should keep it,” she said to him. “I have so many of them already.”</p><p>“Thank you, ma’am,” Mike replied, quickly learning that, much like Micky, Janelle would not take no for an answer. He held out the film as the picture in it slowly appeared before him. Micky leaned over his shoulder and laughed at the image of himself, putting up bunny ears behind Mike’s head. Mike slipped the photograph in the pocket of his jeans.</p><p>The amount of gifts he had been receiving overwhelmed him. Micky’s house – Micky’s family – made him painfully homesick and filled him with a yearning for a life he had never had that sapped him dry. He hated feeling like he wasn’t appreciative of the Dolenz’s kindness, but he felt like he might break down into tears by the end of the night. Micky seemed to have everything Mike had ever wanted, and out of everything, he hated feeling sickeningly jealous of one of his only friends. And whenever he tried to push down the jealousy and the anger that came with it, the loneliness only reared its head in its absence. He was exhausted and relieved by the time Micky decided they should go.</p><p>A tub of leftovers had been shoved in both his and Micky’s hands before they left, and Micky held them both in his arms when they got to the car. Mike sat in the driver’s seat, Micky in the passenger. Mike tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, and bit his lip, unsure of how to articulate what he was feeling.</p><p>“Um … Mick do you – do you mind staying at my place for the night?” Mike stuttered with a croak that was almost a whisper. “I, uh, don’t think I could stand being alone tonight.”</p><p>“Hm?” Micky hummed, before he registered what Mike had said. “Oh, uh, yeah, sure … yeah, I can do that.”</p><p>Micky didn’t ask Mike any questions as they drove back to his apartment.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Everydays</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Grocery store, ten clerks<br/>Just making change for plastic cherries”</p>
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    <p>Mike was playing his guitar when he heard an insistent knock on his door. He was a little slow getting up, and the knock came again, loud and unrelenting. He prayed it wasn’t the landlord coming to collect his overdue rent.</p><p>When Mike opened the door, however, he was faced with a distraught looking Micky with tears streaming down his face.</p><p>“Micky?” Mike exclaimed. “Wh – Are you alright?”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, wiping at his puffy, reddened eyes with the sleeves of his sweater.</p><p>“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Mike assured him softly, with one hand on Micky’s shoulder. “What happened?”</p><p>“I … I’m gonna fail my exams!” He sobbed. “I’ve got a million chapters I need to read and none of it makes sense! I’ve got three lab reports to write that I haven’t even started, I’ve got an exam on <em>statistics </em>– fucking statistics! I signed up to be a chemist not a goddamn statistician! And I’ve gotta learn calculus? I don’t even know what I want to do with this stupid degree, I’m putting all this effort in for no reason, it just all feels so pointless – “ Micky put his raving on pause for a moment to wipe his eyes and he breathed inwards raggedly “ – I just feel like I’ve got no direction and no purpose and I’m putting myself through all this just so I can get a job that I’ll hate and live the rest of my life wanting to off myself.”</p><p>“Hey,” Mike repeated, not knowing how else to stop Micky from ranting himself to death. “Slow down, shotgun.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Micky repeated, then he couldn’t hold back from starting to cry again.</p><p>Mike wiped some tears from Micky’s cheeks, but more only replaced them as quickly as he could wipe them away. <em>God, I’m bad at this. </em>He wrapped the crying boy into a tight hug, his curly hair tickling Mike’s cheek as Micky leant his face into the crook of his neck. He could feel his shirt getting wet from Micky’s crying.</p><p>Mike had always quietly resented Micky for taking advantage of his good fortune when he started complaining about university. He had come to the conclusion that he and Micky were simply from completely different worlds, and he had tried to keep himself from feeling bitter towards his friend because of that as much as he possibly could. But now here Micky was, crying over feeling like everything was pointless, and Mike figured that they were closer to two sides of the same coin rather than different solar systems entirely.</p><p>“Did you cry all the way over here?” Mike asked, trying to lighten the mood just a little. “I would have been all dried up by now.”</p><p>“I didn’t think you could cry at all.” Micky gave a weak little chuckle, hot breath on Mike’s skin. Micky pulled him closer, skinny arms around his waist, and his heart skipped a beat. “I always pictured you shedding a single tear then immediately becoming stoic again.”</p><p>Mike didn’t respond. When neither of them spoke for a while, Mike pulled away from Micky, both hands on his shoulders.</p><p>“Do you wanna see my Cagney impression?” Mike asked him. Micky grinned from ear to ear and nodded, cheeks and eyes still red and tearstained.</p><p>Mike stepped further away and adjusted his stance, screwing up his face in preparation.</p><p>“<em>You’re the rat that killed my brothah,</em>” he hissed, pointing at Micky, and Micky burst out laughing, head tipped back while he cackled. Mike’s impression was probably the worst Cagney that Micky had ever seen – he still had his same accent, for Christ’s sake.</p><p>“Don’t quit your day job, babe,” Micky said, the remnants of a giggle in his voice. He wiped at his eyes, not out of sadness this time. Mike shrugged in a way that said, ‘<em>I tried.’</em></p><p>Micky went silent and stood in the living room of Mike’s apartment awkwardly, not sure what to do now that nobody was talking, and he wasn’t crying anymore. Mike picked up on his body language and pulled him to the couch to sit together. Micky felt wrung out and exhausted and he didn’t feel much like talking, for once. Mike had never seen him so quiet in all the time they had known each other.</p><p>“You know, I had a job I hated in Texas,” Mike began, slipping his arm around Micky’s shoulder. “I was workin’ for peanuts and I could barely stand waking up in the morning. I wasn’t even getting by and I figured, you know, this just ain’t worth it, is it? So, I left. So, I guess I’m just tryin’ to say … sometimes you just gotta go where your heart tells you to go, Mick.”</p><p>Micky leaned his head on Mike’s shoulder, and he thought he just might drop dead right there. Mike wasn’t a complete idiot; somewhere in his head he knew why Micky being so close made him feel that way, but he didn’t want to unpack it just yet.</p><p>“Are you happier now?” Micky asked, his voice quiet and croaking. He sniffed once.</p><p>“Well, there’s always something missin’, ain’t there?” Mike replied, and though he wouldn’t be able to tell, his initial answer disappointed Micky significantly. But then Mike continued, “I think complete satisfaction is impossible to achieve, anyhow. I don’t like having to play music that I don’t like for people that underpay me, and I don’t like how I can’t sleep because everything is so loud here. But … now that I know you, I think I’m happier, yeah.”</p><p>That lifted Micky’s mood faster than any Cagney impression could.</p><p>“Do you want water?” Mike asked. “You’ve gotta be dehydrated with all that crying.”</p><p>Micky nodded and lifted his head from Mike’s shoulder, though he assumed that Mike would have gotten him water regardless of whether he had nodded or not. Micky laid across the couch in Mike’s absence, his head on the arm rest. He closed his eyes; they had felt so heavy all morning from the all-nighter he had pulled in an attempt to cram in more studying (which had only served to make him feel more distressed). It was a wonder he hadn’t passed out on the street on the way to Mike’s apartment, but he supposed he was feeling too frantic to have slept. Now that that was over, he could feel himself nodding off, and he did nothing to fight it.</p><p>Until he was awoken by the phone in the kitchen ringing. Mike answered it with a “hello”. Micky listened in to the one sided conversation.</p><p>“Not now, Johnny,” Mike sighed. “I’m busy.”</p><p>Micky had never witnessed Mike turn Johnny down. With every conversation Micky had seen them have, Mike was hanging on to every word Johnny said. Mike dropped everything for him, but Micky had never seen Johnny do the same. Mike never called him first, never reached out to him for help, never asked him to stay. If Johnny wanted to stay, then he stayed, and if he wanted to leave, then Mike let him go without a word. Everything was always on his terms – even his own rejection, apparently, as Micky heard Mike arguing over the phone as Johnny made a fuss about being turned down.</p><p>Micky felt a pang of jealousy as Mike continued to talk over the phone, trying to keep his voice quiet so Micky didn’t hear his end of the conversation. Most of all, he wished Mike would just stop trying to hide what his relationship with Johnny really was. Micky liked to believe he was trustworthy, and <em>he</em> would certainly trust Mike with anything, and yet Mike still hadn’t told him. But he told himself not to question what Mike did or did not tell him. He was a shy person. He would get there in his own time.</p><p>Mike finally put the phone back on the receiver (a little aggressively in Micky’s opinion) and brought the glass of water over to Micky. He hadn’t realised how parched he was. Micky had sat up, but he still had his legs laying across the couch, and Mike lifted them up and swung them over so he could sit. Micky rested his feet in Mike’s lap.</p><p>“Sorry about that,” Mike apologised, his cheeks a light shade of pink.</p><p>“Johnny?” Micky asked. Mike nodded. “I don’t get why you hang around him.”</p><p>“Really, he’s not that bad,” Mike said, unconvincingly, but maybe that was just because Micky was developing a vendetta. “He was one of my first friends here and he got me into doing the kinda gigs I do now.”</p><p>“But you hate those gigs,” Micky pointed out.</p><p>“But I get paid and I get to play my guitar,” Mike argued. “That’s the best I can ask for right now. And besides, he’s really a good guy, and he was nice to me.”</p><p><em>Was. Past tense. </em>But Micky kept that to himself, not wanting to hear any more of Mike’s pro-Johnny arguments. He sipped his water.</p><p>“How ‘bout I make us some lunch,” Mike proposed. “And then we can go back to your dorm and I can help you revise for your exams a bit if you want, then you can quit worrying about not studying enough and everything’ll be alright.”</p><p>Mike made them both sandwiches and they ate them standing at the kitchen counter on account of Mike not owning a dining table. More than anything, Micky wanted to sleep, but instead he trudged behind Mike on the way to his room. He appreciated the sandwich (Mike’s sandwiches always tasted better) and everything else Mike was doing for him, even if the thought of more studying, on top of Micky’s exhaustion, and thinking about Johnny had made his head hurt with frustration.</p><p>They skimmed through just about everything in the textbook Micky thought would be on his exam thrice over, and Mike had quizzed him over and over again until he was dizzy. They had been at it for hours. Mike was on the floor, helping Micky write out some flash cards when he heard something clatter.</p><p>Mike looked up to see Micky slumped over his desk, head resting on one outstretched arm that lay across the table. He was breathing shallowly and evenly, his eyes shut tight. Mike stood to look at the scene. What he had heard clattering was Micky’s pen that he had lost grip on. He was fast asleep.</p><p>Mike ran one hand through Micky’s hair, feeling the softness underneath his fingertips, and tried to get him to wake up.</p><p>“Mick,” he said, albeit quietly. Micky was out cold – who knew what it would take to wake the kid up. Mike sighed and turned to the bed.</p><p>Mike adjusted some of the pillows into a configuration he assumed would be comfortable and pulled back the covers. He turned back to Micky, unsure of if his plan could logistically work. Micky was skinny, but so was Mike, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to lift the other boy. Still, he walked over to Micky’s sleeping form and tried anyway. As carefully as he could, he slipped a hand underneath Micky’s knees, supported his back with the other and lifted him out of the chair (with <em>much </em>difficulty). How Micky hadn’t even stirred as Mike carried him to the bed, Mike did not know, but finally, he was placing Micky’s body down and pulling the blanket over him.</p><p>Mike stood back to admire his handiwork, mentally giving himself a pat on the back for not waking Micky (though he was almost certain now that nothing could wake Micky once he was asleep). He thought Micky looked pretty when he was sleeping. His features softened, the arch of his eyebrows lessened, and his lips opened just that little bit. His hair splayed all across the pillow, and it looked soft as cotton candy.</p><p>Mike quit his staring. It was getting late; they really had been at it for a long time – no wonder Micky had fallen asleep. Mike had lost track of the hours passing.</p><p>He stretched out his long legs as he sat on the floor beside Micky’s bed. He took his jean jacket and wool hat off and balled them up to use as a pillow. It wasn’t long before he was falling asleep, too.</p><p>Mike woke from a dreamless sleep to the sun streaming in through Micky’s windows. He rubbed his sleep filled eyes with the balls of his palms and sat up. His back and neck ached from sleeping on the floor. Micky was getting dressed in the corner, and he smiled when he noticed Mike was awake. He looked around the room, groggily taking in his surroundings, when he noticed there was a blanket covering his legs where there had not been before.</p><p>“I’ve got to get to work,” Micky said, tightening his tie and pulling his cardigan over his shoulders. “Lock the door on your way out.”</p><p>Mike nodded, blinking hard, trying to wake himself up. He had a throbbing headache.</p><p>“See ya later,” Micky called before he was out the door, leaving Mike alone on his floor and underneath his blankets.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Behind That Locked Door</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Please forget those teardrops<br/>Let me take them from you<br/>The love you are blessed with<br/>This world’s waiting for<br/>So let out your heart, please, please<br/>From behind that locked door.”</p>
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    <p>Mike gingerly carried a tray that held two glasses and a jug of lemonade outside to Micky, being extra careful not to spill any of it. Micky’s tinny portable radio played Dusty Springfield’s new single softly as he worked on Mike’s car, as he promised he would. He even seemed like he was having fun doing it, too. He had gone to Mike’s apartment directly after work, still in his uniform, to beg Mike to let him have at it.</p><p>Micky’s feet were sticking out from underneath the car, and Mike kicked them lightly to get his attention. Micky slid out, grinning widely at Mike. His eyes were squinted against the sun that shone over him, basking him in light, and he held a gloved hand above his face to block it out.</p><p>Mike motioned to the tray of lemonade, and Micky stood up, shucking off his gloves and running a hand through his hair.</p><p>“Thanks, Mikey,” he huffed, taking one of the glasses from the tray. The lemonade was refreshing compared to the warm day that it was turning out to be. Mike rolled his eyes at the nickname, but he didn’t argue.</p><p>Micky had set up a foldable bench outside to put his tools and things on, and Mike set the lemonade tray with the pitcher down on the end. He saw that Micky had brought his camera with him and had left it beside his tools.</p><p>“Hey, Mick,” Mike called to him. He was drinking his lemonade and leaning against the hood of the car. “Say cheese.”</p><p>Micky beamed at the camera Mike was pointing at him and held his drink in one hand, a spanner in the other, still leaning with his elbows on the hood of the car. A flash and a whir of the camera, and the film was being spat out, the polaroid taking time to develop the image. When the photo appeared, Mike smiled at the recreation of Micky’s wide smile. The sun made everything in the photo appear pink and bright and warm. Micky came to look at it over Mike’s shoulder, chugging the rest of his drink, but mostly he was just watching Mike.</p><p>He set his empty glass down on the tray and slid back underneath the car. Mike crouched down next to the legs that once more stuck out, balancing on the balls of his feet and bending down to peer underneath at Micky. They smiled at each other when their eyes met. Micky was humming along to the song that was playing on the radio – something by the Beach Boys – while he worked. Micky would often sing along to songs that played on the radio, or whatever was stuck in his head at that moment, with seemingly no care about who was listening to him, and Mike was sure that his voice was one of the best he had ever heard.</p><p>“You sure like to have projects, don’t you?” Mike said to him.</p><p>“I like having things to do,” Micky called. Mike imagined that, had Micky been standing, he would have accentuated that statement with a shrug. “I like to get away from myself.”</p><p>Mike had quit crouching and instead sat on the ground, his back leaning against one of the tyres. “Is that why you would pretend to be someone else? At those parties?”</p><p>“I also like learning about people,” Micky clarified. “You know, finding out about people’s experiences, seeing things through new perspectives.”</p><p>“What new perspective could a snobbish asshole possibly give you?” Mike scoffed.</p><p>“You’d be surprised,” Micky told him, having to yell a little louder to be heard from underneath the car. “With all that money, they can cause as much melodrama as they want and act pretentious while doing it. And sometimes I find someone like you.”</p><p>“So, you’ve got more stragglers like me under your wing?” Mike chuckled, picking at his fingernails just for something to do with his hands.</p><p>“Sadly, I’ve only got you,” Micky sighed facetiously. “You’re the only one who wasn’t smart enough to get out while you still could.”</p><p>He huffed out a small laugh, and bit at his fingernails. He couldn’t help his mind wandering, and he cursed it for always bringing him down. But sometimes, the way Micky spoke caused him to worry that he was just another project for him. That Micky was just trying to get him to crack, tell him things that he probably shouldn’t, and once he had outgrown his use, he would be left on the side of the road. He had been burned before, and he liked to think he knew when he was playing with fire. He told himself time and time again, almost like a personal mantra, that it wasn’t like that, but those thoughts were always with him, scratching at his corners.</p><p>The months kept adding onto one another since the night that he and Micky had first met, and yet everything still seemed so temporary.</p><p>The worst part of it all was that, even though Mike was convinced Micky was only using him for the games he liked to play, he would tell Micky everything if he ever asked for it.</p><p>Micky worked on the car most of the afternoon and came out grimy with grease and begging Mike for a shower and clean clothes. Then they sat together on Mike’s ratty couch, Micky with his legs tucked underneath him. He was facing Mike, but he was really eyeing the acoustic guitar that leant on the wall across from where he was sitting.</p><p>“What kind of music do you actually like to play?” Micky asked, seemingly out of nowhere, but Mike had given up trying to follow Micky’s trains of thought a long time ago. “When you’re not doing gigs and stuff, what kind of things do you write?”</p><p>“Oh,” Mike chuckled. “I don’t know, country and western sort of stuff. It’s not very good.”</p><p>“Show me,” Micky prompted him. “I wanna hear it for myself.”</p><p>Mike had a million ways to refuse going through his head, and yet he spoke none of them aloud. Instead, he said, “Hand me the guitar then, will ya?”</p><p>Micky practically skipped to the guitar, and brought it over, sitting down closer to Mike than he had been before, their knees touching. Mike tested the tuning of the strings.</p><p>“Are you sure you wanna hear it?” Mike asked. “It’s not too late to back out now.”</p><p>“I’ve never been more sure, babe,” Micky replied. Mike stared for a moment, taking in Micky’s eager expression. He cleared his throat and focused on his own hands that strummed the strings and formed themselves into the chord shapes. Though Mike didn’t know it, Micky followed his gaze to watch his hands,</p><p>After a few beats of strumming, Mike began to sing softly:</p><p>
  <em>Her name was Joanne<br/>And she lived in a meadow by a pond</em>
</p><p>Micky watched him as he played and thought that he was perhaps the most magnificent thing he had seen. Out of all the extravagant parties he had snuck into, with all of their twinkling chandeliers and shining golden lights and women in their gowns, Mike was the only thing from them that he had cared to remember. And that had proved to be worth it, as the song Mike was playing suited him better than any song he could have heard him play at parties, and Micky never wanted to forget the tune. It seemed everything he had done to become closer to Mike was worth it for this one moment.</p><p>Mike finished the song and set the guitar down as Micky clapped for him. He was about to shower him with praise, when he noticed Mike biting his lip, looking like he had something on his mind. He sat up, not leaning against the back of the couch, and both hands gripped the cushion on either side of him.</p><p>“Mick … I need to tell you something,” he started, not able to look Micky in the eye. “It’s about Johnny and me.”</p><p>“What about him?” Micky asked, feigning as if he didn’t know exactly what Mike was going to say.</p><p>“It’s just … we …” Mike stuttered and ran a hand through his hair. “Our relationship is kind of … <em>God, </em>it’s complicated.”</p><p>“Is he your boyfriend?” Micky asked, cringing at how direct he had been, but he knew that Mike would never be able to spit it out without some guidance. Maybe he should have been more subtle, but he had spoken without thinking. Still, Mike looked absolutely mortified.</p><p>“He’s just a friend,” Mike said quickly, though Micky didn’t believe him, and Mike could see that. His face was bright red and getting redder. “But we – “ Mike hid his face behind his hands. “ – It’s complicated. He’s just a friend, but I’m hung up and he knows it.”</p><p>Micky was beginning to connect some dots. “Do you love him?”</p><p>“I’m hung up,” Mike repeated. He was quiet for a moment. “I get it if you don’t want to hang around no more.”</p><p>“Mike, it’s okay,” Micky said softly, pulling Mike’s hands away from his face to look at him. It was the closest he had ever seen Mike get to crying. “I’m not – I’m not against that kinda stuff, y’know?”</p><p>Mike turned his face away from Micky’s and took his hands back, folding them under his arms close to his chest. He brought his knees up and sat quietly for a minute. Micky let him speak in his own time.</p><p>“I really like him, Mick,” Mike said finally. “He’s good to me when we’re together, but … But despite everything, he says he never wants anything more than friendship and I can’t help but feel strung along. I’ve just – just got this emptiness in me and I keep thinking I can replace it with Johnny, but he never stays around long enough. I just feel so goddamn lonely, but I don’t have the heart to break things off.”</p><p>The jealous part of Micky’s brain couldn’t help but be convinced that Johnny was just using Mike for a quick and easy lay, but the logical part argued that he didn’t know Johnny, and he certainly didn’t know what he was like when they were together. He tried to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help himself.</p><p>“Surely there’s someone out there who’ll be better for you,” Micky said quietly. “Someone who won’t take advantage of you like that. Maybe you and Johnny just don’t fit together.”</p><p>Mike clammed up, obviously not wanting to hear Micky’s criticisms of his relationships. “He’s not taking advantage of me. He’s just … repressed and not ready for the things that come along with a serious relationship with someone like me.”</p><p>It felt inappropriate to mention to Micky all of the kind things Johnny did in private. The sharing of cigarettes, the soft kisses shared in his bed, the small touches of skin against skin. Especially since those moments always seemed to end all too quickly, and never left the confines of the bedroom. They were small, but they were enough to convince Mike that, when it came down to it, Johnny cared for him. He just had a funny way of showing it.</p><p>“I won’t lecture you on a relationship I have no part in,” Micky conceded. “C’mon Mikey, I’d do anything to cheer you up.”</p><p>“I don’t know, Micky,” Mike mumbled.</p><p>“I could play guitar for you,” Micky suggested, as he laid his eyes on the one thing in the room he could use as a distraction. “We could watch a movie.”</p><p>“You play guitar?” Mike asked, the distraction obviously working. “How come you never told me you could play guitar?”</p><p>“I’m not very good,” Micky blushed, picking up the guitar.</p><p>“I don’t believe that for a second,” Mike argued. Micky strummed out a few chords, playing nothing in particular. It had been a while, and he was trying to remember some of the songs he had learned. After a while of this, Mike piped up again. “Can you sing for me? I love it when you sing.”</p><p>Micky smiled bashfully and began an old folk ballad that had been one of the first songs he learnt. He fumbled a lot, and whenever he did, he looked to Mike, who pretended not to notice. He closed his eyes and leant his head back against the top of the couch as Micky sang. He began to truly pity Mike, who had to do this several nights a week at most. Finally, it came to an end.</p><p>“You’ve got a beautiful voice,” Mike noted, eyes still closed. “You’ve really got somethin’ special there, babe.”</p><p>“The guitar’s a bust, though, huh?” Micky chuckled.</p><p>“No, it was good,” Mike assured him. “I think you would be a good drummer, though, with all of your energy.”</p><p>“You think so?” Micky asked. Mike nodded. He yawned and sat up.</p><p>“How about that movie, huh?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Joanne</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Though the essence is gone<br/>I have no tears to cry for her<br/>And my only thoughts of her are kind”</p>
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    <p>Whenever Micky had work Mike stayed in his apartment, bored. He wondered how he had ever gotten by without seeing Micky every day. He had spent most of his days like this, on his couch, playing guitar, listening to records or watching television, and it had never seemed as mind numbingly tedious as it did now. He thought maybe he was becoming a little too dependent.</p><p>Those thoughts were pushed aside, however, when he heard a knock at the door, and Micky swiftly entered soon after, not waiting for Mike to open the door for him. He looked ecstatic, with his signature grin that wrinkled the corners of his eyes. He was holding up a clear plastic bag that he threw in Mike’s lap.</p><p>Mike held it up in front of his face and looked at the contents inside.</p><p>“Grass?” Mike asked, looking to Micky.</p><p>“Yeah, my co-worker hooked me up,” He explained. “Apparently it’s the good stuff, too.”</p><p>“Dig,” Mike scoffed. “Have you ever smoked before?”</p><p>“No,” Micky admitted coyly. “Have you?”</p><p>“Yeah, a couple of times,” Mike shrugged, opening the bag to peer inside.</p><p>They wasted no time with Mike taking control of the situation, teaching Micky how to handle things. It wasn’t long before they were sat on Mike’s floor, with their backs leant up against the couch and knees tucked to their chests, passing a joint back and forth.</p><p>“I don’t think I like the smell much,” Micky commented, holding it between his fingers and frowning at it. Then he shrugged. “Better than tobacco, I guess.”</p><p>Mike took the joint from his hands and their fingertips brushed together slightly. “How ya feel?”</p><p>“Tired,” Micky laughed. Mike smiled at him as he breathed out smoke. He stretched his legs out, and Micky took that as an opportunity to lay down in his lap. Mike’s eyes widened at Micky’s head resting on his thighs, but he was far too spaced out to react in the way he would have if he weren’t high (that being freaking out and trying to shuffle away). Instead, he reached down to place a hand in Micky’s curls and patted them softly.</p><p>“Sing for me,” Mike said, still running his hand through Micky’s hair. Micky smiled and burrowed his face in Mike’s lap before he began singing ‘Oh, Pretty Woman.’ Mike thought his rendition was better than the original – he wished he could record it so he could listen to it again and again. He got lost in a daydream of him and Micky becoming a duo, him on guitar, Micky on vocals. Maybe one day they would get a recording deal and they would release a cover, that way Mike would be able to listen to it every day.</p><p>It was all so confusing to think about, the things he did with Micky, and the way they made him feel. He didn’t want to think about it. He already had to deal with all of the puzzling feelings that came with his relationship to Johnny, let alone all the things that Micky did that drove him crazy. He liked Johnny; he really did – more than he cared to admit. But Johnny never laid in his lap or asked him to play guitar for him. He used to, but he didn’t anymore. He had only even seen him a few more times since Mike had turned him down over the phone. Maybe he was just too hung up on the past to realise that Johnny had changed. He was distant now. <em>God, how do I keep fucking these things up? </em></p><p>No matter how he felt about Micky, he was weak, and he was fragile, and he couldn’t stop trying with Johnny if he wanted to. Something inside Mike was hopeful to a fault.</p><p>“You’re quiet,” Micky pointed out, turning his head to face Mike. Micky had stopped singing a while ago and Mike hadn’t noticed it had been quiet for that long. “What are you thinking about?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Mike huffed with a smile at Micky and brushed the hair from his face. “Just enjoying your company.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Micky asked with a pensive smile. Then, all of a sudden, he sat up. Mike missed the comfort of his weight on him and the warmth that came with it. “We should go to the beach.”</p><p>“The beach?” Mike repeated.</p><p>“Yeah,” Micky said. “It’s only a twenty minute walk.”</p><p>Mike was never one to say no to Micky Dolenz. He slung his denim jacket over his shoulder as Micky grabbed the camera that he had left on Mike’s coffee table at one point or another.</p><p>Mike wondered how he had lived in LA for almost a year now and still had never been to the beach. The sun was setting when they arrived, and the beach was almost empty save for a small group of people sitting around a bonfire. Micky flicked his shoes off and carried them in his hands, feeling the sensations of the sand running between his toes. His eyes were glassy, his hair was wild, and Mike thought he was beautiful.</p><p>Mike didn’t take his boots off. He was fully dressed in jeans and flannel in the middle of summer at the beach, and this seemed to amuse Micky greatly. Micky was running, kicking up sand, laughing at his own jokes.</p><p>“I thought the grass would mellow you out,” Mike called to Micky, who had run further ahead. In the distance, he saw Micky’s silhouette give a dramatic shrug.</p><p>Eventually, Mike caught up to him and they walked side by side, bumping each other’s shoulders occasionally, trying to get the other to fall over. Micky held up the camera to take a photo of Mike, who held up a peace sign and smiled, but continued walking. They had walked so far that at the edge of the beach was a line of houses.</p><p>Mike pointed at a particularly decrepit one. “Look at that shitty house – “ Micky’s gaze followed the line of his arm “ – I’d hate to live there. Looks like it’s about to fall over.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Micky disagreed. “I think it might be nice. It’d be affordable, for sure. If I lived there, I would go to the beach every day in the summer, and maybe put a few flowers out to make it look better. Could even fix it up, if I had the money, and make it a nice seaside cottage and invite my friends over for lemonade every afternoon.”</p><p>“And I would be there?” Mike asked.</p><p>“Of course,” Micky replied, his voice coming out quieter than he expected. He wouldn’t want to go anywhere that Mike wasn’t with him.</p><p>Micky looked up at Mike and a voice inside his head was telling him to kiss him, and he thought in his inebriated state that Mike had heard it too. He looked at Mike’s lips probably for much longer than he felt he had and swore that they were getting closer to his. More than anything, he wanted this. But he knew he couldn’t do that to Mike. Mike wanted Johnny. Mike didn’t want him.</p><p>Micky backed away.</p><p>“I’m going for a swim,” he said, making an active effort not to stutter as he said it. He tore his shirt off and threw it at Mike, dropping his shoes on the ground and running to the water. Once he was out deep enough, he dove in head-first. The water felt good on his skin in a way that it hadn’t before, but that may have been because of the high the grass was giving him. He resurfaced, wiping his wet hair away from his face. Everything smelled like salt.</p><p>“Micky, you’ve still got your jeans on!” Mike called to him. Micky ignored him and dove back underneath the waves.</p><p>He was being dramatic – he <em>knew </em>he was being dramatic. So what if Mike didn’t like him back? He wasn’t owed that. And yet the petulant child within him wouldn’t stay away. The child within him just kept crying and crying, throwing a tantrum over not getting what he wanted.</p><p>Micky swam over to the shallower area and sat in the water. Mike had rolled his jeans up to his knees and came splashing over. Micky wished he would go away; he didn’t want to be around him anymore. He was feeling too bitter. But Mike wouldn’t leave, so Micky pretended to be happy, and smiled up at him.</p><p>“Did ya have fun?” Mike asked, with a slight chuckle in his voice. Micky nodded.</p><p>The spoilt little kid within him was still making all the decisions, and more than anything he wanted to reach out to Mike, to feel him there with him, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Micky stood up, water splashing around him, and wrapped his arms around Mike’s shoulders, almost knocking him over. He could feel Mike’s hand tentatively touching his bare back. He could feel Mike’s shirt dampening underneath him.</p><p>“Mick?”</p><p>“I’m hungry,” Micky whined. Mike chuckled.</p><p>“That’ll happen,” he said. He pulled away, his hands holding Micky’s waist, his thumbs running over the wet skin. “Come on, let’s go home and I can get us some food.”</p><p>Micky stood and walked back to shore, grabbing his boots and t-shirt from the sand.</p><p>The walk home seemed longer than the walk there, but maybe that was simply because Micky was cold and sopping wet. Ever the gentleman, Mike had given him his jacket, but that didn’t stop his jeans from being soaked.</p><p>When they got back to the apartment, Johnny was sitting in front of Mike’s door, looking like he had been there for a while. When he saw the pair, he stood, looking at Mike. Micky was hungry still and his mouth was dry, and more than anything he just wished he had chosen to go to his dorm instead.</p><p>“Johnny?” Mike said, upon seeing him making his way over. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“I just wanted to see you,” he said. His eyes flicked to Micky, who was wishing he wasn’t wearing Mike’s jacket. He felt real pathetic, standing behind Mike, trying not to be noticed. “I was wondering if I could come inside?”</p><p>Mike’s eyes turned to Micky, too. He wished everyone would stop staring at him.</p><p>“I can leave, if you want,” Micky suggested. He wanted nothing more than to be in his own bed.</p><p>“It’s fine, Mick,” Mike said to him quietly, with a small raising of his hand. Then he turned back to Johnny, “Not tonight. I’m stoned and tired, and we’re hungry.”</p><p>Micky wished Mike hadn’t said ‘we’. He didn’t want to be brought into it.</p><p>“Mike, I’m sorry for not being around,” Johnny pleaded with him. “Please, I’m sorry, let me make it up to you.”</p><p>Micky knew he was full of bullshit. He would say anything just so he could get his way. He couldn’t stand losing Mike because he knew it would service his own interests. Maybe somewhere in his heart of hearts he just didn’t want to have to break Mike’s heart by cutting things off, but if that part of him existed, Micky couldn’t see it. But he knew Mike did, and that was why it was surprising when he heard Mike say, “If you wanted to apologise, you could do it in the daytime. Go home, Johnny.”</p><p>“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” He said, suddenly getting angry and pointing to Micky. Micky wished he could shrink. “You’ve found someone new to – to – “</p><p>“Micky’s my friend,” Mike shot down what he was going to say. Micky was glad that Mike was defending him, but he would be lying if he said his heart hadn’t sunk just that little bit. “I thought you wanted to be ‘just friends’ too.”</p><p>Johnny stopped short, unable to come up with something to say in his defence. He bit his lip, before returning to his apologising strategy. “Please Mike, I know I’ve been crummy. I only came to make things better between us.”</p><p>“You can do that tomorrow,” Mike conceded. Micky wished Mike had the ability to just tell him to piss off. “But not tonight.”</p><p>“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Johnny assured him. “I’ll take you out for lunch. I’ll pay.”</p><p>Mike nodded, if only to get him to leave, then opened his door, and shut it in Johnny’s face He looked to Micky and sighed, knowing how it must have looked to him. Mike was acutely aware of Micky’s opinions on Johnny, even if he rarely stated them.</p><p>Micky had the awful thought that he should have kissed Mike, if it would only make him more likely to never speak to Johnny again, and he almost let out a bitter laugh. But that thought was mean-spirited and selfish and so he pushed it away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. I'll Be Your Baby Tonight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Kick your shoes off, do not fear<br/>Bring that bottle over here<br/>I’ll be your baby tonight”</p>
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    <p>It was only a few days later when Mike came to Micky. It was the second time Micky had ever seen him as close to tears as he was. He didn’t know what to think when he saw Mike at his door late that night, his eyes glassy from tears that threatened to spill, and his posture hunched over himself with his arms crossed tightly to his chest. Micky didn’t think he had thought anything at all, just raw anxiety.</p><p>He would never admit that, within that raw emotion, he was slightly hopeful that something had happened with Johnny. He wouldn’t allow himself to be so callous. Besides, the small part of his brain that was rational shot it down immediately – it had been days since Mike and Johnny’s lunch date and Mike hadn’t spoken a word of it.</p><p>His train of thought left as quickly as it had arrived once he opened the door and Mike sunk into him, squeezing him tightly around the waist. He tucked his head into the crook of Micky’s neck, and he felt the pompom from Mike’s hat against his cheek. Then he really did begin to cry.</p><p>Mike didn’t make a sound, but Micky could feel the tears on the collar of his shirt and felt him shaking in his arms. Micky tried to say something – anything – but he came up empty, so instead he rubbed circles with his palm on Mike’s back and let out small <em>shh</em>’s and <em>hey</em>’s. Mike pulled Micky tighter, their probably-too-skinny torsos pressed together. Micky had never really noticed how Mike was all bones and limbs – spindly long arms and long legs. He noticed now.</p><p>When it became clear Mike wasn’t letting up, Micky pulled him over to the bed, still not letting go of him. They pulled apart as they tried to find a way to sit comfortably, but Mike never stopped touching him, reaching out to grasp at fistfuls of Micky’s shirt. Somehow, they managed to get into a position where they were leaning against the headboard of the bed, despite the journey there being a mess of tangled limbs and crawling together trying not to be apart for too long. Mike had his head on Micky’s chest, arms around his waist, and a leg laying on top of his</p><p>“Is this too serious for a James Cagney impression?” Micky asked, trying to lighten the mood. He couldn’t stand the room being so quiet; he hated being able to hear nothing but Mike’s quiet, shaking breaths. He felt Mike nod. “What happened?”</p><p>“Noth– Nothing,” Mike hiccupped. Micky didn’t believe him. “I just … miss home, is all. And I shouldn’t.”</p><p>“Tell me about Texas,” Micky suggested, with a squeeze of Mike’s shoulder. Mike sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “You never talk about it. Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”</p><p>Mike was silent for a while. He wasn’t sure how to sum up everything that had happened in Texas or describe aptly just what it was like to grow up there – not just the events, but the sights, the smells, the sounds, the feeling of everything there. It all had a nostalgic quality that he couldn’t put into words. He began, “I l-lived in a small town. The kind where everyone knew everyone, you know? I was the oldest kid in a big family, so that meant I was in charge, and I would watch all the little ones while they played outside – “ Mike paused to take a shuddering breath, and wiped his nose again “ – In summer, my mama would come out with us when she wasn’t working and make us lemonade and she always saved the biggest glass for me.”</p><p>“That sounds nice,” Micky said in a tone that sounded like a sigh. He pushed Mike’s hair out of his face and ran his hand through it.</p><p>“It was, sometimes,” Mike replied. “But we were poor, and it wears you down after a while. And, anyway, I got a little older and a little more aware of what was going on around me, and people became more aware of me, too, which didn’t turn out too well for me. I don’t think there was a day when I wasn’t called a queer or a poof or worse. I was only eleven and I hardly knew what any of it meant. I was just quiet and liked playing guitar and reading books more than anything else, and I skipped church a little too often, but that was enough to get people talking. None of that should have meant anything, but it did to them. It made it harder for me to realise I was … you know … because I was so hellbent on proving them wrong. Well, anyway, word got around quick. Small towns, you know? My dad didn’t take too kindly to that kind of talk, but he couldn’t take it out on the whole town, could he? As far as he saw it, I was the problem, not them – “ Mike reached over for a moment, quiet, and took hold of Micky’s hand, fiddling with his fingers absently “ – I don’t know what he would have done if he ever found out I really was a queer, but he didn’t stick around long enough for that, anyway. He ditched us a few years later. I don’t think it was because of me – he had other, bigger problems – but I don’t think my ma ever got over it. She never meant to make it so obvious, but I could tell she blamed me, even if just a little bit.”</p><p>“That’s not fair,” Micky said. It was all he could say.</p><p>“It wasn’t like I was exactly kind to her in my teens,” Mike argued. “I was angry at everyone and I was a rotten kid. It’s a surprise I didn’t end up in prison when I hit eighteen. I was awful, and I left her, just like my dad did. I guess I never got over the guilt.”</p><p>“That’s not the same as your dad ditching. It’s not,” Micky told him, but he knew that Mike would never be convinced. “Where did you go? When you left?”</p><p>“I took my guitar, some clothes and some cash I had tucked away and hitchhiked a few towns over,” Mike explained. His voice was soft and had an edge of self-consciousness. “I found a job doing some manual labour, but it paid almost nothing, and I was starving. I was even skinnier than I am now if you can believe it. I stayed for a year and a half before I finally realised it was a bust.”</p><p>“Why do you miss it? If things were so bad?” Micky asked. He worried he had stepped over some kind of line, said the wrong thing.</p><p>“I don’t know, that’s the problem,” Mike sniffed. “I guess, you know, I spent seventeen years of my life there. I have good memories there. It’s familiar in a way this place isn’t. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it no more. I’m sorry for coming all unexpected, I just couldn’t stand bein’ alone.”</p><p>Mike worried he had said too much – that now Micky knew everything he wouldn’t need him around anymore. The puzzle would be solved, the picture would come clear into the frame, and Micky would get bored. But he was still there, solid underneath his fingers, and he didn’t seem like he would be moving anytime soon.</p><p>“I don’t mind,” Micky said. Then the two of them fell silent.</p><p>Micky was okay with the silence. Mike’s breathing had evened out, and his head rose and fell with Micky’s chest. He just wished he could ignore his stomach doing flips every time Mike pulled him closer or nestled his head in Micky’s chest. He managed to cool it enough to fall asleep, as they both soon drifted off, all tangled together.</p><p>When Micky awoke, it was to an empty bed. The sheets were twisted, and the blanket tangled around Micky’s feet, but there was nobody in the room except him. He sat up, blinking sleep out of his eyes, wondering where Mike had gone, and why.</p><p>He stayed in bed for a while. It was a warm morning and he had slept well, and he wanted to savour it as much as possible. But he couldn’t help but keep thinking about Mike, and that thought drove him to get up and get dressed.</p><p>The walk to Mike’s apartment felt long, and he wondered if he should just turn back and go home. The needy and desperate child within him was back and he despised himself for it. He didn’t want to pester Mike. He had good intentions at heart, as most of all, he wanted to know if Mike was okay after last night, but that selfish part of him he kept trying to ignore was also insecure about where he stood.</p><p>He finally arrived at Mike’s apartment and knocked on the door. <em>No way out of it now. </em>He waited, and waited, and waited, but there was no response. He knocked again – no response. He turned the knob, but the door didn’t budge. <em>Maybe he isn’t home.</em></p><p>But it was early, and some awful, suspicious part of Micky told him that something was off. He went to the car park to see if Mike’s car was there.</p><p>It was. Worse, parked next to it was another car – Johnny’s car.</p><p>Micky almost didn’t know how to react. <em>Fuck this. </em>He had never felt so strung along in his life. He felt like a silly teenage girl; he felt like a pathetic loser. He felt like shit. In a bout of jealousy, he kicked Johnny’s car as hard as he could. It had hardly made a dent, but it had hurt like a bitch. He clutched his foot, hopping around in pain, feeling utterly ridiculous.</p><p>Micky walked home as quick as he could, eager to hide in his room from his embarrassment. He had shit to do, he had classes to study for. He didn’t have the time to worry about Mike and his bullshit with Johnny. If he was going to choose Johnny, then so be it. He couldn’t tell Mike what to do, and Micky couldn’t expect him to reciprocate his feelings – that just wasn’t how things worked.</p><p>And yet all he wanted to do was barge into Mike’s apartment and scream. He wanted to tear the wallpaper down and he wanted to take Mike away where Johnny couldn’t find him. He hated it. He knew it wasn’t fair to Mike, and he hated himself for it. He had never felt so embarrassed in his life.</p><p>
  <em>This is ridiculous. I’m not his fucking boyfriend.</em>
</p><p>Micky desperately tried to distract himself from the tantrum going on within him. He read, he studied, he listened to his records, he read again. Eventually, he had to go to class, and even that couldn’t distract him. The class grated at him; everything he had tried to push away came bubbling to the surface.</p><p>He walked out of class early. He thought if he had to sit through another ten minutes of that lecture he might just combust. He was on a mission for the nearest telephone – the one in the common room. A group of friends huddled together, crowded around watching television, and he ignored them.</p><p>“Hello?” Micky said into the receiver. “Mom?”</p><p>Tears threatened to spill over as his mom asked him what was wrong. <em>God, </em>did he feel melodramatic.</p><p>“Mom, I hate it here,” Micky whined into the phone. He wondered if the people watching tv were listening to him. He couldn’t care less. “This course is just … I can’t do it anymore; I can’t handle another day.”</p><p>“Micky …” his mom said, unsure of how to comfort him.</p><p>“I really mean it,” Micky said, not waiting for her response. “If I have to look at one more periodic table of elements I’ll scream. I can’t live the rest of my life like this.”</p><p>“Honey, I’m sorry,” Mrs Dolenz sighed. “The semester’s almost over, just get through to the holidays, and we’ll see how you feel by then and figure out a plan.”</p><p>“Okay,” Micky said with a nod, though his mother couldn’t see it. “Okay.”</p><p>Micky didn’t say goodbye, only hung up the phone and sat down against the wall, his head in his hands. He had to get through the end of semester, but still, his mother hadn’t said no. It was something. Still, he felt worn out.</p><p>Still, he was thinking about Mike.</p><p>Micky left the common room for his dorm, leaving behind the prying eyes of the people there. He had to get over this thing with Mike; it wasn’t good for him. God, how had he gotten this hung up? When had that happened? He supposed he could only trace it back to their very first meeting – those very first chords that Mike had played for him. It had been less than half a year and still it felt like forever.</p><p>He knew he had to get over it, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He could probably learn to live with loving Mike silently – he could definitely learn if he never had to see Johnny’s smug face. He supposed he understood now why Mike kept going back to Johnny, which was a fucked up kind of catch-22 in Micky’s eyes. Still, he reminded himself that that wasn’t an equal comparison. Mike was being strung along because it was convenient for Johnny, but he had only ever acted as a good friend to Micky. Micky was the one who pushed things forward, the one who pulled Mike back to him.</p><p>
  <em>Terrific. Now I’ve moved on to self-hatred.</em>
</p><p>This was all so stupid. Nothing had happened between them anyway. He was upset over nothing.</p><p>And yet ‘nothing’ still seemed to hurt a great deal when Micky slipped into bed that night, his sheets still in the same position they had been in since the morning, and the bed felt uncomfortably empty without Mike in it with him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“But I’ll see you in the sky above<br/>In the tall grass, in the ones I love<br/>You’re gonna make me lonesome when you go”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mike began spending a hell of a lot of time with Johnny.</p><p><em>It’s fine, it’s cool, it’s whatever.</em> It’s not like Mike had an obligation to Micky. They weren’t boyfriends, as he had to keep reminding himself. Micky had just been spoilt by having Mike’s undivided attention and now he was having to wean himself off of it. That was all. He would get used to it. He just didn’t deal well with change.</p><p>Except he couldn’t deny that he would be fine if Mike had other friends. It was only because it was Johnny that Micky was acting out, finding himself sulking in his bedroom for hours when Mike wasn’t around.</p><p>He hated the quiet of night times most of all. He was so used to having someone to eat with, someone to cook for, the constant sound of casual conversation. But most nights Mike spent working or with Johnny these days. Micky supposed Johnny must have kept good on his promise to fix things with Mike after all – or he was just having a dry spell. Micky wondered if the two of them talked very much; he wondered if their conversations were at all similar to his and Mike’s. He couldn’t possibly think of what Johnny would have to say about anything, but then again, he never had taken the time to get to know him. Micky had never even bothered to ask Mike what he saw in him, if he had any hobbies in similar, or shared experiences. Mike had never told him, either. Maybe he had sensed the tension there.</p><p>Micky tried to busy himself as much as he could. He still had his job to go to, and he had a semester to pass before he could drop out, and despite knowing he was going to be dropping out, he still didn’t think he could stand failing his classes. <em>That’s what getting good grades in high school does to you</em>, he guessed, <em>you set yourself unnecessary standards. </em>Most of the time he stayed in his room, hunched over textbooks, he went to lectures and the labs, or he wasted hours at work, serving about two customers per shift and spending the rest of it bored. Whenever he was working he had always hoped Mike would come in for some cigarettes or what-not to ease the boredom, and that habit was only exacerbated in his sudden absence. Except he never did stop in, and Micky was left to keep uselessly hoping.</p><p>Micky had even gone to the lengths of seeing a girl. Not exactly <em>seeing, </em>exactly – they hadn’t dated. But the girl who had been flirting with him all year in his classes had asked to come to his dorm to study and she <em>had</em> ended up coming to his dorm, but they <em>didn’t</em> study. He had kissed her softly and held her face in his hands. They had sat on his bed, kissing and holding each other close, but that was about all they did. He felt too guilty about using her as a rebound for a relationship that hadn’t even happened, and he couldn’t go through with it. She had started unbuttoning his shirt when he caught a glimpse of a photo of Mike hung on his wall, and he knew there was no way he would be able to distract himself here. He walked her home later that night.</p><p>Micky looked over each photo carefully. Mike in his room, Mike at the beach, him and Mike together on his couch, him playing Mike’s guitar. He considered taking them down, but even the thought seemed ridiculous. They were still friends; Mike still cared for him, he hoped. They still spent time together, and those moments were easy and free of tension, like they always were. It wasn’t Mike’s fault that nothing was ever enough for Micky.</p><p>He spent a lot of his time wandering aimlessly by himself. He revisited the duck pond more and more, bringing pieces of bread with him. He hadn’t visited there much since meeting Mike – there was no need, with all the other things he could have been spending his time doing with his friend – and he felt a little guilty. He didn’t know why he felt sorry about abandoning some ducks who would probably get fed by a dozen other people daily. He supposed he was just weirdly sentimental lately.</p><p>The girl asked him out on a proper date, and he accepted. Her hands were soft, and her hair was as well. She laughed prettily and hung on to every word he said. Every second that passed he only felt more hypocritical of stringing her along, making her hopeful for something more when he knew that would never happen. How could he be critical of Johnny and Mike when he was no different? But he figured he would at least give her a good date and pay for her meal as a way to apologise for using her to try to get over his dumb obsession with his best friend. Then he would break things off, no harm, no foul. They hardly knew each other, and he figured that would make it easier for her to get over him.</p><p>Her rings shone under the lights of the restaurant they had gone to, bringing him back to a memory from not so long ago, of twinkling lights and soft piano and champagne. She was clever and dedicated, and much better suited for their course than Micky was. She wasn’t the type of girl who would think much about Micky once he was gone. She was funny too, sharing Micky’s sense of humour. He wished they could have been friends. Maybe it wasn’t too late for that.</p><p>Micky left with a lonely feeling deep in his stomach. He loosened his tie, went through the movements of undressing without paying much attention. He wished he had been a bit more selfish, just so he didn’t have to sleep in an empty bed.</p><p>The next day after work, he found Mike sitting on his bed, boots kicked off to the side on the floor, and legs crossed one over the other. Micky had long gotten used to Mike’s habit of waiting for Micky’s shift to finish in his dorm, but it had been a while since he had come unannounced that he couldn’t help but jump. Mike had started calling beforehand lately.</p><p>Without a word, Micky slipped his own shoes off and sat on the empty side of the bed, folding his hands in his lap. Mike was in a thoughtful, sullen mood that night and Micky could tell.</p><p>“I had a date with a girl last night,” Micky told him, looking to Mike’s face to gage some kind of change in expression. It was useless – he had an excellent poker face. “The girl in a few of my classes that I told you about.”</p><p>“Oh,” Mike said simply. “Was she nice?”</p><p>“Yeah, outta sight,” Micky chuckled. Maybe he was laying it on a bit too thick. “Good kisser, too.”</p><p>Once more, Micky looked to Mike for some kind of giveaway in his face, and once more, Mike kept a neutral expression. Micky thought he looked like he was trying a little bit too hard to keep a straight face, but he didn’t exactly trust his assessment to be unbiased.</p><p>Mike, indeed, did feel that familiar spike of jealousy. However, he had chosen this path when he had gone with Johnny and he would have to live with that. The jealousy was a small price to pay for saving himself from hurt when Micky was tired of him. Mike needed Micky more than Micky needed him. He needed Johnny a lot more than Johnny needed him too, but at least after every time he left, he always came back with his tail between his legs. He couldn’t be so sure that Micky would do the same – he had too much dignity.</p><p>Mike slipped a pack of smokes out of the pocket of his jeans and slid one out. He held it between his teeth, cupped a hand around a lighter and lit it up. Micky didn’t mind that he did this much – he had bought an ashtray to put on the bedside table for him. Mike passed him the cigarette in silence, and he took it. Even when he was in his quiet, morose moods he still shared with Micky everything he had, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. It seemed every small act of kindness he showed Micky only served to keep him hanging on, and Mike didn’t even know it.</p><p>“Are you still homesick?” Micky asked him, knowing that was an easier way to ask him what was wrong than to accuse Johnny of doing anything to him.</p><p>“Yeah,” Mike replied, quietly and more to himself than to Micky. What he didn’t say was that his home here was beginning to feel more familiar every day. He had felt happy in California, he had gotten used to the streets, and the people, and the noises. And that, more than anything, made him miss home. It felt like a betrayal. If he didn’t leave soon then he would never want to go back, and he couldn’t stand the finality of it all. He was overdue for self-sabotage. “This city is so damn strange. I’m glad I managed to find you in it, though.”</p><p>“Me and Johnny?” Micky asked. He just couldn’t help himself.</p><p>“I s’pose,” Mike shrugged, speaking with a sigh.</p><p>
  <em>I s’pose. </em>
</p><p>Micky took one last drag of the cigarette and pretended that it was the cause of his light-headedness.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. You Don't Have to Cry/ Back to the Old House</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“And you never knew<br/>How much I really liked you<br/>Because I never even told you<br/>Oh, and I meant to”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Micky allowed himself to visit Mike in the morning. Usually Johnny was there in the mornings, and Micky certainly didn’t enjoy seeing him. The feeling was mutual – it seemed Johnny disliked Micky just as much as Micky disliked him, and the tension in any room they shared was palpable. They didn’t have to say that they disliked each other; any fool could have seen it. The only thing keeping them from anything more than passive-aggression was Mike.</p><p>Johnny seemed to be acting more possessive these days, too. He would plant a hand on Mike’s knee when Micky was around, would whisper in his ear to make him laugh, would lean in and touch his shoulder lightly when he told him he was leaving. And yet, that morning, Micky was willing to risk it.</p><p>It seemed like luck was on his side. Mike’s apartment was in his line of sight when he saw Johnny closing the door behind him, fixing the collar of his jacket, then turning to leave. He waved to Micky when they eventually passed one another, but there was no warmth of camaraderie in the gesture.</p><p>When Micky finally entered the apartment, Mike was sat at the couch, hunched over a cup of coffee and a cigarette in hand that he lazily took a drag from as he stared at the wall. He looked like he hadn’t slept, and his hair stuck up at odd angles from not being brushed.</p><p>“Mike?” Micky called to him, pulling him out of his reverie. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“Hm?” Mike hummed, before registering what Micky was saying. “Oh. Yeah. It’s just … Johnny just left. To be picked up by his girlfriend.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Mike sighed.</p><p>“I thought things were different,” Micky said. “Now that he’s always hangin’ around and stuff.”</p><p>“Nothing really changes when it comes to Johnny. He’ll be crawling back sooner or later, anyway,” Mike waved Micky’s statement a way with the hand that was holding the cigarette. Things had been different, for a while – Johnny had been keeping good on his promises. But everyone was prone to relapses every now and then, no matter how much they try to change. “It was dumb of me to expect him to be ex-<em>clu</em>-sive in this day and age, but …”</p><p>Micky had never tried to understand Johnny and Mike’s relationship, but now he wished he had, if only so he could wrap his head around why Mike stayed. He didn’t comprehend why Mike thought he didn’t deserve any better.</p><p>There was a plethora of things Micky could, and wanted to, say about Mike and Johnny and the importance of people who cared for you, but instead he simply said, “Come on, I was thinking we could work on your car. My dad got me some parts for it.”</p><p>Then Micky was once again underneath Mike’s car, singing along to the radio while Mike listened to him and leaned against the tire.</p><p>Mike hadn’t been feeling like himself for a long time. He had a lot of time to think lately – between Johnny rarely staying during the day, and not wanting to bother Micky with his bullshit – and Michael and thinking was not a good mix. He supposed he had gotten more nostalgic as he settled into his life in California. Maybe he had gotten used to being on the go. The familiarity he was beginning to feel for California only made him miss Texas more. When he wasn’t concerning himself with Johnny and Micky, he was worrying that he would forget what his life had been like, that he would forget his siblings and his mama. Anyway, he didn’t want to be introspective anymore.</p><p>“Did you ever see that girl again?” Mike asked as a way to distract himself. He was unable to hide the burning curiosity that he had ever since Micky had mentioned her. “The one who was a good kisser?”</p><p>“Nah,” Micky replied. “She was too smart for me. Way outta my league.”</p><p>That wasn’t the reason at all, but Mike wouldn’t know that.</p><p>“But she seemed like she liked you,” Mike said back. “So you mustn’t have been out of her league at all.”</p><p>“Eh, it was only a matter of time ‘til she realised she could do better,” Micky argued. “Or she’d realise looking at my face every day is its own kind of punishment.”</p><p>“I see your face every day,” Mike shot back. He quite enjoyed looking at Micky’s face, really. “And I’ve never had a reason to complain.”</p><p>Micky didn’t say anything in response, only kept working underneath the car. After a while he got started on a new topic, saying, “The semester ends soon. I’m gonna be staying at my parents’ place over the break.”</p><p>He didn’t tell Mike he was planning on dropping out and he didn’t know why. He just couldn’t get the words out. He was finding it harder and harder to tell Mike what he was feeling these days. He kept a lot of things closer to his chest.</p><p>“So I’m gonna have to drive out there if I wanna spend time with ya?” Mike asked.</p><p>“My mom would love you visiting,” Micky told him. “You could have dinner with us. My mom might try to get you to take more hats, though.”</p><p>Mike chuckled. Spending time with Micky and his family wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but he knew the domesticity of it all would only make him a little depressed and homesick. More so than usual, he supposed. “I’ll think about it.”</p><p>A couple hours later they were driving around the city with the windows wound down and the radio playing loudly. It was a hot day and Micky enjoyed feeling the wind blowing on his face, as he stuck his head out the window (as he usually did). Mike was singing along to a song that Micky didn’t know and was laughing at him. The wind was loud, and the radio deafening, and yet everything seemed to feel calm and quiet, the scene playing out in slow-motion. They were happy. They were together.</p><p>Micky felt ecstatic. All thoughts of Johnny had been blown out the window, and he was simply there, in the moment, enjoying Mike’s company. They drove and drove and drove, going down streets they hadn’t even known existed, not caring about where they were going, and still they managed to find their way home, back to Micky’s dorm.</p><p>The sun was setting when they finally began the homeward bound, and Micky sunk against the car seat with his knees tucked to his chest and a hand above his face to block out the sun. He felt like he could sleep right there. Mike continued to hum along to some love song on the radio, tapping with his thumbs on the steering wheel, his features bathed in golden light. They had slowed down, not feeling the need to hurry, and the wind wasn’t as loud anymore.</p><p>Mike seemed happier than he had in a while, and Micky wished it could have lasted forever. He had missed seeing Mike smile – he had missed taking quick glances at the crooked teeth that he tried so hard to hide. But everything had to come to an end, and soon Micky was unlocking his door and Mike was sitting at his desk, cigarette in hand.</p><p>In the quiet of the room, he couldn’t help but start to think about Mike and Johnny again, like a scab he kept picking at over and over. He just couldn’t let it go.</p><p>Mike was silent, the euphoria from the afternoon wearing off quick. The events from earlier that morning were coming back to him and he was finding it harder and harder to ignore. Mike hadn’t even known Johnny had a girlfriend. She had been a recent development, apparently, despite Johnny saying he wanted to make things better. He had never specified that would entail him not going after anyone else – it wasn’t like they were boyfriends – and Mike felt stupid for expecting it. Still, he only wished for a little bit of respect. There wasn’t much class in calling your girlfriend to pick you up from the house of the boy you were fucking behind her back.</p><p>Mike’s silence itched at Micky. He couldn’t just keep thinking quietly, not when he was worrying about how down Mike had seemed for a long time, and how Johnny had only left him that morning and neither of them had talked about it. Neither of them ever discussed Johnny very substantially, and Micky decided that it was high time they did, because he couldn’t just sit, and watch Mike put himself through it anymore.</p><p>“Do you think Johnny has something to do with your homesickness?” Micky asked, with a slight clearing of his throat. Mike looked to him with a questioning glance, surprised that Micky had the gall to bring Johnny up.</p><p>“What do you mean by that?” He asked and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.</p><p>“Come on, Mike,” he scoffed nervously, his voice quiet from shyness. “He treats you like shit. He acts all possessive only to lead you on and it’s getting you down.”</p><p>“You <em>never</em> liked him,” Mike exhaled, shaking his head and looking out the window. “Have you ever even had a conversation with him? How can you expect him to like you if you never give him a chance?”</p><p>“I know enough about him to not feel the need to give him a chance,” Micky spat. Mike had a temper, he knew this, and usually he knew how to deal with it. He could speak in a way that calmed him down, brought him back from the edge. But Mike’s temper had never been directed at him before, and he couldn’t help but chafe underneath it. “You’re too involved to see what he’s doing, Michael.”</p><p>Mike had to argue with that. He knew <em>exactly </em>what Johnny was doing, he just didn’t care to do anything about it. He had invested too much time into it, and he would go down with this sinking ship. But he knew those feelings were too nonsensical to put into words, and Micky would shoot them down in less than a minute. So he resorted to deflecting.</p><p>He hadn’t meant to argue, but the wound from that morning was still fresh, and so was the embarrassment that came with it, and he lashed out.</p><p>“If anything it’s <em>you </em>who’s making me homesick,” Mike shot back.</p><p>“What?” Micky gasped. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.</p><p>“Every day I just have to sit back and watch you take what you have for granted!” Mike exclaimed, voice rising in volume with every word. “You’ve got happiness handed to you on a silver platter and you don’t even seem to care.”</p><p>“That’s not fair,” Micky gulped, hands balling into fists. <em>He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t. </em>“I was just trying to help.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, I’m not your project, okay?” Mike yelled. “I’m not a car for you to fix and I’m not a puzzle for you to solve.”</p><p>“That’s not why I’m here!” Micky yelled back.</p><p>“Then why?” Mike almost screamed. They were standing now, inches apart from each other, staring one another down. “Why are you here?”</p><p>Micky opened his mouth with a gasping breath. The words, his explanation, were on the tip of his tongue, ready on his lips. He had been trying to say them for months now and had tried to show them in everything he did. He had been waiting for this moment, had thought about what he would say if it ever came up every night before he slept. And yet, he hesitated. And yet, nothing came out. His throat had gone dry and closed over itself.</p><p>They stared into each other’s eyes as Micky struggled with finding the words for what he needed. Eventually, Mike got tired with waiting for an answer. The silence was confirmation enough. He broke the eye contact, looked to the ground with a frown and gathered up his denim jacket. “I’m going back to Texas.”</p><p>“Huh – what?” Micky stuttered, broken out of his stupor by possibly the worst words that he could have heard Mike utter.</p><p>“I’m going home,” he repeated. “I haven’t seen my mother in two years. I haven’t even spoken to her; I don’t even know about my siblings or if anything’s happened to them – “ Mike took a deep breath. His voice came out quieter when he started talking again. “ – Some of them were young when I left. I never even got to see them grow up. I want to go home, Mick.”</p><p>“Mikey, please,” Micky begged – for what, he didn’t know.</p><p>“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” Mike growled, anger flaring up again. Micky was choking up and shutting down.</p><p>“W-well what about me?” Micky asked, voice much louder than he had intended, and with an undeniable hint of desperation that cracked at the edges of his sentence. “Aren’t I your family too?”</p><p>Mike ignored him, hiding his face from Micky. <em>Why does everything always come to this? To running away and leaving? </em>Still, he walked to the door.</p><p>“Will you call?” Micky called after him before he could leave. “When you get to Texas?”</p><p>“Maybe,” Mike replied. Micky didn’t see him bite his lip. Micky didn’t see the tears that welled in his eyes. Micky would never be able to see the guilt he felt.</p><p>He slammed the door on his way out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Fare Thee Well</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Wherever I go, I will return<br/>If I go ten thousand miles.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mike practically ran back to his apartment – he must have looked like a madman. He had barged into his own living room, the door slamming behind him. The only thought that crossed his mind as he ran was that he had to get to his apartment, other than that he wasn’t thinking at all. He had no goal in mind, he just had to get someplace away from Micky. He had half expected Micky to have stopped him by now, but he hadn’t.</p><p>So he stood in his living room, and everything was suddenly quiet. He stood aimlessly for a moment, thinking of what he would do next. He had said he was going back to Texas in the heat of the moment. He had been thinking about it for a while, but he never thought he would actually make the decision to do it, especially not so suddenly and without warning. He ran his hand through his hair, almost pulling out several clumps in the process, and his wool hat fell from his head to the ground. He didn’t pick it up.</p><p>His head was spinning, working at a hundred miles per hour, and yet he didn’t think he had a single coherent thought. What was he going to pack? When was he going to leave? What was he going to say to his ma and siblings when he got there? What was his plan? Why had he even argued with Micky at all?</p><p>Micky. He couldn’t just leave Micky and never speak to him again. He had to say something to him, had to apologise. But he didn’t think he could stand to face him. He wouldn’t go back to Micky’s dorm, that was just too damn awkward. He was leaving tonight; he knew that much. There wouldn’t be time to stop in, but a phone call just felt so impersonal.</p><p>A letter. He would write him a letter. He would mail it when he got to Texas. Where were his goddamn pens?</p><p>Mike stormed into his bedroom and ripped a page from his song writing book and sat at his desk. He was trying to think of some respectful way to say everything that he should probably tell Micky, but everything sounded too distant and cliché. Knowing Micky, it would probably only make him hate Mike, if he didn’t already.</p><p>Screw it. He would write whatever was going through his rambling, adrenaline fuelled mind. The pen scratched across the page. The letters formed on the paper as quickly as they appeared in his head.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Micky,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m sorry about everything I said. I meant none of it. I’ve always been a rotten kid, I guess that never really goes away. I’m just sorry you had to see it. I tried real hard for things to be different.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can’t deny that I was a little bitter and jealous. I’m jealous of your family, your life, the way you can make other people happy, the way trust comes so easily to you. You’re too good for me. I didn’t mean to let it affect me, but it did.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>About Johnny: you were right, and I knew it. I’ve known it for a while, I think. I don’t know why I stayed with him – maybe I just wanted to prove that for once, I wouldn’t run away from something, but that ended up a bust. I chose the wrong thing to stick with. Maybe that’s a little too psychoanalytical, maybe I just wanted to not wake up alone every day. I reckon it’s a bit of both.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t want you to blame yourself for me leaving. It wasn’t because of anything you said, not really. You were in the right the whole time and I was being cruel and deflecting. I’ve just got things I need to sort out and I don’t want to burden you with that anymore. I don’t know what I’m going to do without Micky Dolenz in my life, but I know that you’ll probably be better without Mike Nesmith in yours. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope we meet again somehow. Until next time,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mike.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mike looked over the words on the page, written in his scratchy, hurried handwriting. The pen was inky, and there were smudges all over the paper and ink on his hand. He read it over and over and over, tears of frustration threatening to fall as he pulled at his hair again. Nothing he wrote seemed to come out right at all. Everything sounded so clumsy.</p><p>He had caught a glimpse of a photo on his desk, the one of him with Micky and his family at dinner. He stared at it intently, forgetting all about the letter. The tears did spill, in the end, and they were humiliating, even if nobody was there to see them.</p><p>He slipped the photograph into the pocket of his jeans where he couldn’t see it, but he would still remember to take it with him when he left. He crumpled up the letter, threw it in the trash and held his head in his hands.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Bridge Over Troubled Water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Oh when times get rough<br/>And friends just can’t be found<br/>Like a bridge over troubled water<br/>I will lay me down.”</p>
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    <p>Micky hadn’t cried when Mike left, even though he had so terribly wanted to. He had stared at the door for a long time (or what felt like a long time, at least), completely and utterly stunned and unsure of what had actually happened. Mike couldn’t have been serious right? He was just going to pack up and leave? Did he hate Micky that much?</p><p>His eyes threatened to cry, and his body threatened to break down into wracking sobs, but they never came. A single tear escaped, and he wiped it away with a hand that was clenched into a fist. He wasn’t going to let Mike make him feel more degraded by allowing himself to cry.</p><p>The first thing he had done after he’d been broken from his reverie was tear down all the photos from his walls, gather every polaroid from his desk, and throw them into a box. Then, he curled up on his bed, on top of his blankets (still fighting back tears) and fell asleep in his clothes.</p><p>That was over a month ago, now.</p><p>He was living with his parents, a college dropout. Not having Mike around made school seem unbearable without someone to study with, and no one to take him away from the stress and the work. Yet he almost didn’t want it to end, no matter how much he hated it all, because that would mean that he wouldn’t have as likely a chance to run into Mike now he wasn’t living nearby his old apartment. Maybe it was good for him to get away from the streets, and corner stores, and cafes that made him nostalgic for only a month ago, but he was afraid that without the constant reminders he would start to forget everything.</p><p>He had to admit, that he was pretty damn low. He hadn’t heard a word from Mike, not even a phone call to say he had made it to Texas, and he didn’t know why he had expected to. Micky didn’t like to catastrophise, but had Mike died, he would never even know. He brushed that thought away whenever it came. It did nothing but bring him down.</p><p>It wasn’t just the absence of Mike that weighed him down – his life had also gone pretty off the rails. He sure as hell didn’t want to go back to school, but after he had dropped out, he didn’t have much idea what he was going to do next. Most days he stayed home, in his room, reading. He rarely left except for going to work. He felt completely and utterly directionless.</p><p>He still hoped to catch Mike at the drug store, as he always had, but now he knew it was pointless. Mike was long gone. He knew how this play went, and yet he kept wishing for a different ending anyway. Micky didn’t have much else to look forward to these days.</p><p>He never saw Mike at the pharmacy, but he did see Johnny, once. Micky was half asleep at the counter when he came in, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets and looking like he was unsure of how to stand. He pretended to look at a few random products, before cutting to the chase and making his way to the register. He cleared his throat to announce his presence, as if Micky hadn’t been watching him from the second he walked in.</p><p>“Mike said you worked here,” Johnny mumbled. Micky knew that Johnny was all bark and no bite, but now even the bark had left him. He looked like asking Micky for help was a fate worse than death. “He hasn’t been answering my calls, and his apartment is always locked.”</p><p>“Mike’s gone,” Micky said simply, leaning his weight on both hands on top of the counter. He frowned at Johnny. <em>Had Mike not even told him?</em> In some sick kind of way, he felt almost proud that Mike had told Micky and not him. “He went back to Texas.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Why do you even care?” Micky asked, with an edge to his voice. He should have just let Johnny go, but he couldn’t help himself. Johnny’s presence angered him. “Did your girlfriend leave you or did you just get bored of her?”</p><p>“What are you talking about, man?” Johnny spluttered.</p><p>“I know about you and Mike’s … <em>thing</em>. It wasn’t exactly subtle.” Micky explained. “How long did it take you to realise he was gone?”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“He’s been gone a month,” Micky reiterated. “How long did it take you to notice?”</p><p>Johnny blinked at him.</p><p>“Screw this,” he exhaled, growing angry, and turning to leave.</p><p>“He really liked you, you know?” Micky called, making Johnny turn back to look at him. “And you took that for granted.”</p><p>“Welcome to the real world, buddy,” Johnny spat. “Shit’s complicated.”</p><p>“It doesn’t have to be,” Micky argued. “I think you’re just making excuses, so you don’t have to feel bad about yourself.”</p><p>If there was one thing Micky was good at, it was pushing people’s buttons. Johnny opened his mouth to say something in retaliation, but no words came out and he simply spun on his heel and marched out of the shop, the door swinging behind him.</p><p>Micky only had a half hour left of his shift, and he was shaken from his conversation with Johnny for the remainder of the time. He hadn’t exactly expected to confront the guy when he woke up that morning. He wasted away the rest of his shift, stocking shelves, and thinking over all the things he wished he had said. All things considered, he could have really laid into Johnny, and he was disappointed he had missed the opportunity.</p><p>Although, it seemed he hadn’t missed his opportunity after all, when he stepped out of the store to go home and Johnny was waiting for him on the sidewalk. He was slightly hidden by the alleyway next to the store, and Micky would have missed him, had he not spoken up as he walked past.</p><p>“You really don’t know a fuckin’ thing about Mike and me, Dolenz, and I wish you would quit pretending like you do,” Johnny called to him, scowling. It seemed like he had quit his bashful act and gained some bravery in the half hour they hadn’t seen each other.</p><p>Micky was stopped in his tracks, and turned to the voice who had spoken, surprised Johnny had waited for him. He hadn’t fully registered what he had said. When everything clicked, he spoke.</p><p>“I don’t really care,” Micky shot back, voice a little quiet, but growing in confidence as he went on. “I don’t care that you’re so ashamed of being a fuckin’ queer that you can’t be a decent human being. I don’t give a shit about any of your excuses. You should have gotten your shit together before bringing Mike into it.”</p><p>“Mike wanted it,” Johnny seethed. “It’s not like he was complaining, was he?”</p><p>“I don’t <em>care </em>what you thought Mike wanted, man,” Micky argued. “You were hurting him. You can either take responsibility for that or leave me the fuck out of it.”</p><p>“What do you know about what Mike wanted?” Johnny asked, voice rising in volume.</p><p>“I knew him better than you!” Micky claimed. “You didn’t give a shit about him once you figured out how to use him for your own damn satisfaction.”</p><p>“You were always jealous of Mike and me,” Johnny accused him. His fists were clenched, his posture had gotten hostile. “How does it feel knowing no matter how shit I was, he always wanted me way more than he would ever want you? He probably couldn’t stand your skillet face – “</p><p>Micky’s fist slammed into Johnny’s cheek. He fell back into the brick wall, mostly from shock, if anything – Micky wasn’t a very good fighter.</p><p>“And where did that get you, fucker?” Micky shouted, spitting at Johnny’s shoe. “He left and didn’t tell you where he was going. He left you.”</p><p>Johnny hadn’t been prepared to be hit, and Micky hadn’t been prepared to hit him. He was still leaning on the wall with all his weight, taking a second to catch up with everything that had happened. The punch had only lasted a split second. Micky used Johnny’s stunned silence to his advantage and ran for his life. His shoes slapped against the concrete as he booked it to the nearest bus stop. He hadn’t expected his knuckles to sting this much.</p><p>He half expected Johnny to come after him as he waited for his bus. He was on edge, always whipping his head around whenever he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. But Johnny never followed him – he was all bark and no bite.</p><p>That had been a week ago. Now it was finally settling in – Mike really was gone. And he wasn’t coming back. Micky had been looking for any way to distract himself from that reality, and that was how he found himself at the party.</p><p>A little while after he had quit school he found himself going to the parties again, just for something to do, he supposed. He would dress up, straighten out his hair, and he wouldn’t be the Micky Dolenz who lived with his parents and had been so unbearable that his best friend had to run away to Texas just to get away from him. He could be the Micky Dolenz who hadn’t known Mike Nesmith, who was a mystery to all the other guests. That was supposed to be the essence of it, anyway, it was why he had started doing it in the first place – gate crashing all these events just to get away from himself, just to prove that he could.</p><p>But he was a little out of practice. He didn’t feel like putting much effort into the game. Most nights he didn’t stop much to chat to people, he simply took some free entrees and drinks and left before anyone could ask questions. The magic of it all had worn off, and the lights and the conversation annoyed him. He wondered when he would stop being so cynical.</p><p>It was a week after he had punched Johnny that he decided he would at least try. Mike really was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was tired of torturing himself over it.</p><p>So when he did go to the party, he tried his very best to engage himself in it. Ever so slightly, he found that the feeling was coming back. The familiar golden lights, the same too-white furniture that was in every place like this one, the waiters rushing back and forth with trays of sparkling glasses, gave Micky a small hint of that same comfort he felt, a warmth that stretched from his fingertips to the ends of his toes. He was both important and completely irrelevant here, and he had the urge to take advantage of it.</p><p>He found himself making his rounds, speaking to different circles, introducing himself when they asked, saying what he did for a living (his story this time being his father was a big part of the oil industry in Venezuela), kissing the hands of the women and shaking the hands of the men.</p><p>He had been walking around aimlessly with a half empty glass when a man walked up to him – shorter than Micky, with dark brown hair that flopped and curled over his eyes. He was young, but likely a little older than Micky was. The boy gave him a lopsided smirk and held out his hand.</p><p>“Gene Wilson,” he said, as Micky shook his hand.</p><p>“Micky Dolenz,” he said in return.</p><p>“Pleasure to meet you, Micky,” Gene smiled, hand lingering in Micky’s before he pulled away.</p><p>They ended up sitting at the bar together for quite some time. Gene asked Micky a lot of questions about himself that he had to come up with lies on the spot for, but other than those moments of worry that he would be found out, he found he was having the most fun he had had in a while. Gene’s company wasn’t half bad. And though he was trying to be subtle so other patrons wouldn’t be suspicious of them, the signs were there, and Micky knew where this night would be headed. Gene had tested the waters – touching their knees together, lingering glances, a few smiles back and forth – and when Micky hadn’t pulled away, he got braver – a hand on his wrist, whispering in his ear, leaning closer in his chair. Gene was asking him if he lived nearby, if he had anywhere to stay that night and ‘would he like to come back to his apartment when the party was over?’ and Micky wasn’t inclined to say no.</p><p>There had been several musicians and bands that had played throughout the evening, and Micky had learned to fight the urge to glance over to see if any of them were Mike. They never were. And as he heard the familiar hush as a new performer came to the stage, he willed himself not to turn around. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It wasn’t Mike and it never would be.</p><p>But he almost choked on his drink when he heard a clearing of a throat close to the mic that he would recognise even if he were deaf, and the strum of a twelve-string guitar. All coherent thought left Micky’s brain as he snapped his gaze to the stage.</p><p>Mike. He looked tired, as he had when Micky first met him, and his hair had grown a little longer, but other than that he was the same as the day he had left.</p><p>And yet, he hadn’t left. And yet, here he was.</p><p>Mike’s eyes found his and they shared a familiar look.</p><p>“Excuse me, Gene,” Micky apologised, before setting his drink down and rushing to the bathroom. He wondered if Mike’s eyes followed him across the room. He refused to check to see if they were.</p><p>The bathroom was empty, and eery. The sounds from outside were a muffled, ghostly impression of the party. He gripped either side of the sink, his knuckles turning white, and stared wide eyed at his reflection in the mirror. He had gotten out of there so fast, he almost wondered if it had been his imagination. But Mike’s music in the distance served as a constant reminder that this was all too real.</p><p>Micky’s hair hung in his face. How had this happened? Had Mike come back? How long had he been in town? Had he ever even left? Had he just been avoiding Micky this whole time?</p><p>Micky was standing at the sink for what felt like minutes before he realised that someone may walk in and see him. So he moved to a stall, locking the door behind himself as he sat on the floor. He took his coat off and loosened his tie and held his head in his hands. He could hardly believe it.</p><p>After a while of sitting on the floor, not knowing if he should go back out and face it or stay in the stall, he heard the door open and shut. Someone knocked on the stall door.</p><p>“Micky, are you alright?” Gene asked, carefully. Micky swore under his breath. He had almost forgotten about Gene, and he felt terrible about it.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m okay,” Micky replied. “I’m just … I think I’m gonna go home. I’m sorry, Gene, I had a great time.”</p><p>“Okay,” Gene said. Then he slipped a note underneath the door. “Call me when you’re feeling better, okay?”</p><p>He left before Micky could say anything. Micky picked up the note that had Gene’s phone number scrawled on it. He leaned back against the wall, hitting his head hard, but not noticing the pain. He would probably never call Gene. God, how had he made such a mess?</p><p>Micky stayed on that bathroom floor for longer than he should have, listening to people coming and going and debating back and forth whether he should go out, stay in the bathroom or just go home. What if Mike didn’t even want to see him? If he had been avoiding Micky for a month then he most definitely would not want to see him. Micky didn’t think he could put himself through that. All he wanted to do was run on stage and tackle Mike in a hug, but he didn’t think he could take the heartache if Mike didn’t feel the same.</p><p>He had been sitting on the floor for the entirety of Mike’s set. He hadn’t noticed the sudden lack of music at first, but when he did, it sent him into frenzied motion. He had to speak to Mike. He couldn’t just let him go again.</p><p>He spent less than a second straightening himself out before he was rushing out the door, frantically searching the crowd. He stood straight, peering over people’s shoulders, apologising when he ran into guests, and looking for Mike. He had made it across the room, with no luck. Either he had imagined it all, or Mike had already left without looking for him.</p><p>He felt desperate and feverish. He didn’t know if he could take it if Mike really just didn’t want to see him.</p><p>Then he felt a tap on his shoulder.</p><p>“Can I buy you a drink?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Tangled up in Blue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I heard her say over my shoulder<br/>‘We’ll meet again someday on the avenue’<br/>Tangled up in blue.”</p>
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    <p>Micky almost jumped out of his skin as he whirled around on the balls of his feet to face Mike.</p><p>Mike had the beginnings of a hopeful smile, but it was small and shy, and he had a hint of fear in his eyes. All thought disappeared from Micky’s mind as he stared in shock for a moment. It took him a while to realise that, of all things Mike could have said to him after saying he was running away to Texas and not speaking to him for a month, he had asked if he could buy Micky a drink. Was he trying to be cute? That <em>asshole. </em>That <em>motherfucker. </em></p><p>Without a word, Micky grabbed Mike by the wrist and dragged him outside, not bothering to look out for partygoers that may get in his way. He was on a mission for the door and by god he would push over anyone he had to. Once he had escaped the party, and was out on the street, the cool night air sobered him slightly, but that only made him more determined to give Mike a piece of his mind.</p><p>Micky finally let Mike go and turned once more to face him. The smile had gone – Mike’s expression was entirely afraid. Micky didn’t care. He punched Mike’s arm – not hard enough to actually hurt, but Mike still flinched anyway.</p><p>“You never fucking called me,” Micky said, with a raised voice. He wasn’t yelling just yet, but this was certainly not just a casual conversation. “I waited by the phone for days and you never called, you asshole.”</p><p>“Mick, babe, please – “</p><p>“Don’t call me that,” Micky interrupted, frowning. Mike immediately stopped talking and licked his lips nervously. “You don’t get to call me Mick or babe right now.”</p><p>“I was going to call, I promise,” Mike said with a pleading tone. “Please, just come back to my apartment, and I’ll explain everything. Trust me, Micky.”</p><p>“No,” Micky refused. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you explain. If you wanted me to trust you, you shouldn’t have run off to Tex– I-I don’t even know if you were actually <em>in </em>Texas.”</p><p>“It’s a long story Micky, please,” Mike begged, looking around at the street. It was relatively empty, one man smoking on the curb several feet away from them, but it was likely that some pedestrians would come by sooner or later, and he didn’t want them to be listening.</p><p>“No. You can tell it to me here,” Micky demanded, arms crossed over his chest.</p><p>Mike bit his lip, still surveying his surroundings. He seemed unsure of how to start. After a moment of waiting for Mike to speak, Micky let out an ‘ugh’ and turned to leave, but Mike caught him by the wrist.</p><p>“I was going to call,” he said quietly, timid, but rising in confidence slightly as he talked. “When I got to Texas. Except I never got there. I kept making excuses about why I couldn’t leave yet, like I had to save up money first, and I had to pack and a bunch of other stuff. I was too ashamed of myself to stop by and see you, especially since I was still planning on leaving. Today I told myself ‘one last gig’ and then I would be gone … I was kinda hopin’ you would find me, and you did – like fate, or something stupid like that.”</p><p>Mike still held Micky’s wrist in his hand. Micky pulled it away. “What would you have done if I hadn’t come tonight?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Mike admitted.</p><p>“You realise how stupid that is, right?” Micky almost spat. His words stung. “If you wanted to stay with me then you should have just stayed. What if I hadn’t come? You can’t just leave that kind of thing to chance.”</p><p>“I thought you wouldn’t want to see me,” Mike mumbled, looking at his shoes intently.</p><p>“I would have given everything just for a phone call,” Micky said, softening a little. “But now I’m not so sure.”</p><p>It was a lie. He wanted nothing more than to stay with Mike, but he didn’t think his pride could take that hit. He walked away again, and Mike followed, keeping in step with him.</p><p>“I wrote you letters,” Mike told him. “They’re a little clunky and awkward sounding, but they explain everything better than I could while speaking. Please, just come to my apartment.”</p><p>Micky stopped and looked at Mike. His anger had gone and had been replaced with the dull aching he had felt non-stop those first days without Mike.</p><p>“Ask me again,” Micky said. “Ask me again and I’ll say yes.”</p><p>“Please, Mick,” Mike said, his voice almost a whisper.</p><p>Micky nodded. Mike tentatively reached out and clasped Micky’s hand, leading the way home. There was an awkward silence that Mike wished he could fill, but nothing he could say seemed appropriate. He could feel the hand that was in Micky’s start sweating. The streets were empty and dark, lit only by the streetlights and the lights from the windows of apartments high above them.</p><p>“Johnny thinks you’re in Texas,” Micky said suddenly.</p><p>“Good,” Mike replied. Micky had to hide his self-satisfied smirk.</p><p>“He called me ugly and I punched him,” Micky continued, glancing at Mike beside him to see his reaction. He only sighed, guiltily.</p><p>“You were right about him,” Mike sighed. “I knew that, but I was too hung up on our history together to do anything about it.”</p><p>Micky said nothing, so Mike kept talking.</p><p>“You know, after we fought, I went home and I was packing my things and writing you letters, I wasn’t even thinking about Johnny. I never even thought to tell him I was leaving. I was only ever thinking about you,” he said. Micky didn’t know how to react to that admission, and once more he said nothing. The silence felt thick in Mike’s throat. Micky had never been this quiet.</p><p>They were almost at Mike’s place when Micky finally spoke again.</p><p>“I dropped out,” Micky revealed. “I’m living with my parents now.”</p><p>The only response Mike gave was a small ‘oh’.</p><p>Mike had to let go of Micky’s hand to unlock the door, and his body felt empty without Mike attached to him. He felt dumb for it – it was like he needed a constant reminder that Mike was still there. Micky couldn’t shake the feeling that Mike was going to float away the second they were out of each other’s reach.</p><p>It had felt like an age since Micky had been inside the apartment. It hadn’t changed much, aside from a few bags near the door. He wanted to stay mad at Mike, to stand his ground and save his pride. He didn’t want to crawl back to him so easily, didn’t want to fall back into the unrequited pining that made him feel oh so pathetic. But the sights, the smells, the feelings, were all too familiar, and he didn’t know if he could stand to leave them behind once more.</p><p>Mike had told Micky to wait in the living room. He took in all of his surroundings – the tv they had watched countless movies together on, the couch where they had sat, the kitchen where they had cooked dinners for each other. Micky wondered if Mike had planned on just ditching his furniture for the next person who would live here. He couldn’t bear to think of this place looking the exact same, only with a stranger living under its roof. Everything in it had become so distinctly <em>‘Mike’ </em>that the idea of anyone else living there felt invasive.</p><p>Mike eventually came back with a stack of papers in his hands.</p><p>“They’re fairly repetitive and um … <em>corny, </em>but,” Mike stammered. “They’re there if you want to read them.”</p><p>Micky had to refrain from snatching them from Mike’s hands. He immediately began reading the first one, smoothing it out beforehand. All of them were wrinkled from presumably being crumpled into a ball. Knowing Mike, he had probably thrown a fit over not being able to find all the right words for what he wanted to say.</p><p>Mike didn’t know what to do with himself while Micky was reading, so he began making the both of them tea. When he finished, he brought both cups out to the living room, where Micky was still standing near the coffee table and reading. Mike placed Micky’s mug on the table and sat down on the couch, drinking his own. He hadn’t even felt like drinking tea much, but he was glad it gave him something to focus on. Micky didn’t look like he was going to sit down, and it worried him. It gave the impression that he was ready to walk out the second he had finished reading.</p><p>However, Micky didn’t run away once he had finished. He came to the end of the last page and looked up at Mike, who stood up quickly, set his tea down and took the papers from Micky. He had perhaps stood too close in his rush to take the letters but stepping back would only draw attention to it. Still, it made him blush, and Micky noticed the awkward situation no matter how much Mike had tried to play it off.</p><p>“I thought for the longest time this was all an elaborate way to get away from me,” Micky chuckled, though there was hardly any humour behind it. Mike set the papers down on the table. “That you couldn’t stand to be around me, and you just couldn’t say it to my face.”</p><p>“That was the exact opposite of what I wanted,” Mike said, toying with the buttons of the coat he hadn’t taken off yet. “I missed you more than I care to admit … But I figured you were probably better without me.”</p><p>“I wasn’t. I’m not,” Micky admitted. “I was a wreck. All I did was go to school and go to work, and now all I do is go to work. I was only just starting to sort my shit out.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Mick,” Mike said. “I figured you would get bored of me eventually, so you wouldn’t miss me much if I left.”</p><p>Micky didn’t know what to say. Being bored of Mike seemed like such an alien concept to him, he couldn’t fathom why Mike believed it. The silence came over them yet again and Micky couldn’t stand it. He wished things would go back to normal already. He wished Mike would say something, but he only kept fiddling with his buttons.</p><p>“I-I loved you, you know?” Micky burst out, the quiet making him desperate for some kind of noise or <em>something.</em> It had itched at him, until suddenly he was blurting out the one thing that would probably cause Mike to head for the hills again. “I couldn’t come out and say it when you asked why I stuck around … but that was why. And I regretted not saying it for a long time. I should have said it.”</p><p>“Loved? Past tense?” Mike almost whispered, his voice going quiet from shock. His eyebrows were raised, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from Micky’s.</p><p>“I’m too scared to admit that I still do,” Micky breathed, matching Mike’s volume.</p><p>They stared at each other for a moment that lasted both hours and mere seconds, but it was far too long for Micky to wait for Mike to speak or react in any way at all. So, he kept rambling.</p><p>“And the idea that you would think I would get bored of you is frankly ridiculous because I was so in love with you and honestly I’m more annoying than you are boring so I would assume if either of us got sick of the other it would be – “</p><p>Micky’s voice died off in his throat as Mike stepped closer, pulling Micky towards him by the waist. For a breath, they stood pressed together, leaning into each other, lips only an inch apart. Micky felt like he was frozen in time, and Mike had a nervous, but hopeful expression plastered all over his face. Then Mike had moved his hands to either side of Micky’s face and Micky’s had finally caught up and taken hold of the fabric of Mike’s jacket, and Mike was pulling Micky towards him, closer and closer until finally their lips touched and he was kissing him, oh so carefully.</p><p>Both of them gained confidence and deepened the kiss, Micky wrapped his arms around Mike’s neck as he grabbed hold of Micky’s waist. They absent-mindedly stepped backwards together, until Mike was hitting the edge of the couch, and he was falling back into it, taking Micky with him, who ended up straddling his lap. The kiss had been broken, and Micky smiled, pressing his forehead to Mike’s. They were both blushing and letting out matching, shaking breaths.</p><p>“You don’t even know how long I’ve waited for you to do that,” Micky said, a breathy chuckle accompanying the sentence.</p><p>Mike said nothing, only ran his hands through Micky’s hair and pulled him down for another kiss. And Micky kissed him back, again and again and again and again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. This Time Tomorrow/ Her Majesty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“This time tomorrow, what will we see?<br/>Fields full of houses, endless rows of crowded streets”</p>
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    <p>Mike woke up the next morning to Micky sleeping peacefully next to him, the sun shining on him from the open curtains. His hair was still straight from the night before, but it had little waves going through it now. When Mike reached out and touched it, Micky stirred awake.</p><p>“Good morning,” he croaked, blinking his eyes open as Mike’s hand travelled over the skin of his shoulder and chest.</p><p>“Mornin’,” Mike said in return, almost sheepishly. Micky’s hair stuck up at odd angles and he still had sleep in his eyes, and Mike supposed he didn’t look much different, yet he didn’t think either of them minded.</p><p>Micky took the hand that had now travelled to his hips and placed it over his shoulders, as he pulled himself closer, laying his head on Mike’s chest.</p><p>“You know,” Micky began drawing circles on Mike’s back. “I waited for you at the drug store. I thought you were in Texas, but … somehow I just always hoped you would stop by for some cigarettes or something. But you never did.”</p><p>“I don’t smoke much these days,” was all Mike said. Micky pulled away to look at him.</p><p>“I’m staying with my parents now,” Micky said.</p><p>“You mentioned that,” Mike replied with a small smirk. Remembering that conversation brought back all of the other memories from that night, and they made him smile.</p><p>“So, I don’t have another place to stay,” Micky continued.</p><p>“Are you implying you wanna stay here?” Mike asked, more noticeably smirking now. Micky balanced himself above Mike on hands either side of him and looked down, smiling with waves of hair hanging in front of him.</p><p>“Please? It’s closer to work,” Micky said, almost bashful, though it was near impossible for Micky to be bashful. He leaned down on his elbows and stole a kiss.</p><p>“You’ve got morning breath, babe,” Mike told him when they pulled away, but he still raised himself to kiss Micky again. When they pulled away once more, Micky let out a melodramatic ‘blegh’ and said he was going to brush his teeth, heading for the en suite. Mike stayed in bed, on his back, looking at the ceiling.</p><p>“You know, maybe someday we could find a bigger place together,” Mike called to Micky, who let out a hum in response. “Save some money. Maybe get something by the beach.”</p><p>Micky leaned against the bathroom doorframe, toothbrush in hand, and smiled lovingly at Mike, who grinned back with his hands resting behind his head.</p><p>“Someday,” Micky said, returning to the sink. He would have loved it. What he didn’t say to Mike was that for now, his apartment was just fine. At that moment, he didn’t care at all where they lived. He was just glad Mike was there – that was enough.</p><p>Later that morning, they had both finally gotten out of bed, and Mike was making coffee for the both of them. He had chuckled to himself as he saw their abandoned tea from the night before on the coffee table. Micky’s was still completely full.</p><p>Mike was making his way to the living room with the mugs of hot coffee when Micky called to him.</p><p>“You didn’t have to leave, you know?” he said. He wasn’t letting up talking about their month apart. “You could have just called your mom.”</p><p>“I had thought about it,” Mike admitted. “I thought about it since I ran away. But I couldn’t face it when I was seventeen, and the guilt only got worse the longer I put it off. It just seemed … inappropriate, I guess, calling after two years.”</p><p>“No worse than showing up on her doorstep out of the blue,” Micky shrugged. Mike bit his lip.</p><p>“I think I would like to call her, now that I’m not leaving,” Mike said. Micky smiled to himself at the confirmation that Mike was sticking around. Every time he implied it Micky felt a small amount of joy bubble within him. “Is … Is it alright if I do it while you’re here? I don’t know if I could get through it on my own.”</p><p>They finished drinking their coffee first before Mike left for the phone in the kitchen. Micky listened from the living room, as the phone rang and rang. He thought nobody would pick up, until the ringing finally stopped, and he heard Mike say, “Ma? It’s Michael.”</p><p>In those first few minutes there was a lot of apologies and pleading on Mike’s end. A couple of times his voice started wavering slightly, and Micky wordlessly appeared by his side and took his hand. Mike squeezed it. They both leaned against the kitchen bench, Mike with a phone pressed to his ear in one hand, and Micky’s hand linked with the other. Micky leaned his head on Mike’s shoulder as he kept speaking into the phone.</p><p>The tone of the conversation seemed to be getting less tense, and Micky had stopped trying to make sense of what was being said with only Mike’s side of the conversation, instead tuning most of it out. It took him a moment to realise Mike was talking about him.</p><p>“I, um, yeah, I’m in California,” Mike said. “I’m living with a friend at the moment here, I met him while I was working. He, uh, actually was the one who told me to call you.”</p><p>Mike paused for the moment, wincing, as his mom said something.</p><p>“I’m sorry, ma,” he said, quietly. “It was just complicated.”</p><p>He paused again as his mom spoke – what she was saying, Micky couldn’t make out – before he said, “His name’s Micky Dolenz.”</p><p>Mike and his mom talked for a bit longer, Mike mostly recounting what his life in California was like, before he finally said goodbye and hung up. Mike immediately pulled Micky into a hug and rested his head on his shoulder with a sigh. Micky, while still hugging Mike, directed him to the couch where they sat – Micky laying against the arm of the chair, and Mike in between his legs, laying over his chest.</p><p>“She really laid into me, Mick,” Mike sighed.</p><p>“But the worst of it’s over, now,” Micky assured him, stroking his hand through Mike’s thick hair. “Did you find out about your siblings?”</p><p>He could feel Mike nodding against him. “She almost didn’t wanna tell me, but Sarah’s just started high school, and Charlie’s learning guitar.”</p><p>“That’s nice,” Micky hummed.</p><p>“Apparently they miss me,” Mike said, with an overly forced neutral tone. It was obvious to Micky he was trying not to show that he was sad.</p><p>“We could always visit them someday,” Micky suggested. Mike moved his head so he could lean his chin on Micky’s chest and smile at him.</p><p>“They’d end up liking you more’n me,” he chuckled.</p><p>Mike moved his head back, so his cheek was resting on Micky’s chest again, and Micky resumed running his hands through his hair. Mike sighed again, this time in contentment. Neither of them dared to move for a long time. Eventually, however, Micky was lightly tapping Mike’s shoulder and saying he had to shower, and they were both getting up.</p><p>Mike lay on the couch, listening to the shower running. After about twenty minutes, the water shut off. Micky always took long showers and would probably be taking even longer to get dressed. It had been about a half hour total when he finally entered the living room again, dressed in Mike’s clothes. He had washed his hair, and obviously used Mike’s hair dryer, as it was mostly dry by now, the curls returning with full force.</p><p>Mike stood from his position on the couch and walked to Micky, slinging both arms over his shoulders. Micky looked at Mike with a curious expression as he petted at the curly hair. Mike had always loved Micky’s hair.</p><p>“What?” Micky asked, with a slight chuckle. Even after everything that had happened between them, Micky still always blushed at the small gestures of affection Mike showed.</p><p>“I missed you,” Mike said quietly – no need to speak loudly when they were so close.</p><p>“Missed me as in this past month, or just while I was in the shower?” Micky asked, an impish grin that matched Mike’s dopey, lopsided one.</p><p>“Both,” Mike shrugged, as he held Micky’s face in his hands and pressed a kiss to his lips.</p><p>Micky never wanted it to end.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>that's all folks!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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